


Crossworlds

by BreakerBroken



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Aliens in Thedas, Back On My Bioware Bullshit, BioWare, Crossover, F/M, Multiverse, Stranger in a Strange Land
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29412759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreakerBroken/pseuds/BreakerBroken
Summary: Who doesn't love a crossover?Probably not the Turian getting mistaken for a Darkspawn...NOTE: All of the writing that is underlined indicates that those lines of dialogue are from the original games/media. Those lines belong to their original writers and creators.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. The Crash

**Author's Note:**

> BACK ON MY BIOWARE BULLSHIT SORRY ~Breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The survivor of a crash landing finds himself alone, a stranger in a land that _you_ might find all-too familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ The Survivor ~

They had failed.

Joker frantically pushed buttons and pulled levers and manipulated screens, pushing the Normandy well beyond its limits, trying to outrun the blast. And they did, for a while.

But they couldn't escape it.

The shockwave from the destruction of the Mass Relays caught the Normandy's engines and wrecked them.

He was in one of the seats in the War Room, listening to Joker curse, and watching the path of the shockwave in real time on the Galaxy Map.

He tried to memorize what planets they were near, but it was almost impossible to tell where the Mass Relay would drop them.

The systems failed, the cabin depressurized, the lights went out, the temperature dropped. Then they were falling, being pulled down by some planet's gravity. He hoped there was air on whatever planet had them in its grip. Without the pressure stabilizer, their rapid descent through the unknown planet's atmosphere rendered him unconscious.

He came to in the wreckage of the Normandy. Somehow he'd ended up in the hallway to the Bridge. The buckles on his seat must have given way in the crash. He tried to get up. The buckles were still strapped across his chest, tight as ever. It was the chair's base that had given way, probably snapping when the Normandy crashed.

He fumbled for the buckles, freeing himself and crawling out from underneath the chair. His head pounded and ached. He felt at the spot where the pain was the worst, and his hand came away bloody. Not good. He didn't even want to guess what else on him was broken and bleeding.

The others.

He had to search for the others. There had to be other survivors, it couldn't just be him. He wouldn't leave the crew behind, not if he still had strength enough to drag them to safety.

He struggled through as much of the ship as he could. Most of the floors were collapsed. He listened for movement, for calls for help, and heard nothing but the creaking of metal. He limped through the few somewhat intact rooms, finding only corpses.

Even Joker...

EDI lay in pieces in and around Joker's chair. If he had to guess, he'd say EDI tried to shield Joker from the nose of the Normandy crushing in towards him. They'd still both ended up dead.

He moved to where the door had been. The door was heavily dented. He pressed the button, then grimaced at his stupidity. What electricity there was in the Normandy's wreckage was fading fast or was leaking out of the mechanics as sparks. He found the manual lever and fought to flip it. He was sure that all the bones in his arms were fractured to some degree, but he wouldn't give up. Finally, the lever flipped.

He stepped out into bright light, shielding his eyes and squinting.

A few seconds outside of the ship, and the air hadn't killed him. Maybe things were looking up.

No. Survival first, bitter sarcasm later.

He saw green vegetation, brown dirt, and blue sky. One sun, shining white-yellow. Clouds, which meant water. Overall, not a bad planet to crash on.

He looked over his shoulder at the metal hunk that used to be the Normandy.

No. Survival first, grief later.

He almost felt naked without a Widow or Javelin strapped to his back, but the armory had been cut off by twisted metal and angry electricity, and the arms locker was bare. His spare pistol had fallen somewhere when his chair detached and went flying towards the Bridge with him in it.

If he came across anyone - any _thing_ \- that attacked him, he'd have to fight with his bare hands. Not ideal, but it'd have to do. He had good reach, after all. He'd be fine. Ignore the broken limbs and headwound.

He limped away from the crash and out into the alien world, hoping to get to someone before his concussion rendered him unconscious again.

It was a sunny day on this unknown planet. He tried to recall the names of the planets he'd seen just before the engines were fried, but he couldn't remember. As he walked, his vision began to blur and darken. The concussion was taking a turn for the worst. He had to press on. Headwound be damned.

The air felt heavy around him, as if the planet's gravity had suddenly increased. He could barely see five feet ahead of himself before the world blurred into one mass, and what little he could see was dark and fuzzy.

He felt the world spin and was suddenly on his side with a loud thud, pain eating away at him. Everything was blurred and dim. His body hurt so much, and felt so heavy.

Survival first, unconsciousness later.

He tried to keep his eyes open, fighting to stay awake, to keep pressing on.

No luck. Unconsciousness was winning.

He allowed himself one bitterly sarcastic thought: _Yep, things are really looking up for Garrus Vakarian_.

Then the darkness swallowed him.


	2. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trio of Grey Wardens requires assistance from an unlikely source, and one agrees to repay the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ A Grey Warden ~

Jorna walked behind her fellow Wardens. They were fine company, very handy in the field, the kinds of Wardens you'd want at your side if a dozen darkspawn had you surrounded.

Not big on talking, though.

Jorna missed talking. Chatting, gabbing, gossiping. Whatever you wanted to call it, she loved talking to people. That's what'd made her a good barmaid, curse the word, for the only Ferelden-run pub in Orlais. That's how she'd met Niva, too.

Niva'd been lucky that the sour-faced owner’d taken pity on her poor state when she'd first entered the pub. Especially given the grime covering her, and her tattered clothes, and her foul odor. The owner had stormed out from behind the bar, ready to throw her out, but stopped when she'd blurted that she needed a job. Jorna'd watched, standing next to the only occupied table in the entire pub. Coming from an Alienage, she knew exactly what desperation looked like, and at that moment, it looked like Niva.

The owner'd looked down on Niva - literally, the woman was over six feet tall and built like a fortress - and her sour face'd lightened. "Looks like you need more 'an a job. We're no charity shop. But I reckon I got some water to wash the shit off ya and clothes I've no need of anymore."

The pub's owner, Ferda, hadn't trusted Niva not to go around and steal things from the practically bare rooms. She'd had the same attitude with Jorna, who was glad to see it was just good old-fashioned paranoia rather than particular hatred for knife-ears. Ferda'd taken Niva to the washroom, and she must've scrubbed Niva's face and body with a rough rag, because she came back out pinker than a prized nug going to show. Swimming in Ferda's clothes, she'd looked no older than a babe barely out of their mother's arms. Impressive, given that Niva was no young, small thing, either. A grown woman herself, tall by most regards and wide of hip and shoulder.

Niva'd thanked Ferda by 'working off her debt' to the woman. She'd grabbed a rag and begun wiping crumbs and stale ale off tables. Ferda and Jorna both raised a brow at that.

"What're you doing that for?" Jorna'd asked.

"People like clean tables" Niva'd called back, "trust me."

She'd worked her ass off that day, busing tables, sweeping, refilling tankards, taking food out to customers. The sun'd sunk low and the streets'd grown dark when Ferda grumbled an offer for Niva to stay in the pub's attic. "Just for the night."

'Just for the night' turned into two years. After six months as a barmaid, curse the word, Niva'd been promoted to barkeep so Ferda could pursue her true passion: brewing. Ferda let Jorna take over the cooking, and good thing, too. Customers finally stopped complaining of getting the spits and the runs once Jorna took over the kitchen.

Niva'd been a damn good barkeep, and her wild ideas about 'cleanliness' and 'friendliness' - along with Jorna's actually edible food - had made the pub popular with ex-pats and Orlesians alike.

Niva wasn't a talker, but she was a damned fine listener. Jorna, being stuck in the kitchen, didn't get a chance to gab like she loved to, but she got a little fix after she'd buried the kitchen embers and come out for the last hour before closing. Niva got known as a barkeep who could keep secrets. 'Secret-keeper,' they'd called her. Not very clever, but accurate. No matter how rich the dirt, she'd listen, store it away, and never speak of it again. Not even to Jorna, and she'd _tried_ to get them out of Niva, no success. That was the kind of stuff people really appreciated in a barkeep.

But in the end secrets got Niva and Jorna sent to the Grey Wardens. It wasn't even that good of a story. You had _one_ degenerate rich kid tell you about all their salacious trysts with _another_ degenerate rich kid, and suddenly their parents wanted to kill you, then their kids, then themselves, in that order. After the fourth assassination attempt, and no help from the city guard of course, Niva and Jorna both decided they looked better in Grey than in black. 

Ferda's face'd been as stoic as ever, but Jorna felt her back pop and heard Niva's ribs creak when the brewmaster hugged them goodbye. "No one'll ever be good as ya."

Niva'd burst into tears, and Jorna'd heartily cursed the bastards who'd forced them to take the Grey way out.

Darkspawn blood tasted _disgusting_ , and whatever magic they'd used for the Joining had left Jorna woozy for days. They'd survived, much to everyone's surprise, including theirs. It had been the worst pain of Jorna's life. Wouldn't have been a fun way to go, death by Joining, but then neither was a knife in the back of the neck, or a poisoned tankard of ale.

Whoever was in charge of sending Wardens on missions made sure to send them well outside of Orlais, and often. Whether that was also out of those nobles' reach was debatable, but it was nice that the order was trying to keep them safe from assassination. Darkspawn maulings, well, that was _their_ job.

Damned good thing Jorna'd enough skill with daggers to pass the training. Niva'd had a harder time. She'd used a bow a little as a kid, 'for fun,' she'd said. When they were figuring out what she should fight with, they'd realized Niva was too weak to wield anything other than a bow or daggers. The choice was made once they saw her drop her practice daggers and run from the Warden sparring with her. No close-combat for Niva, not if it could be helped.

Niva'd gotten better and better with her bow. Practice makes perfection, and they'd had a _lot_ of practice. Being a Warden was a learn-on-the-job kind of experience.

Jorna was so lost in her thoughts that she ran straight into Scrib and Niva stopped still in the path.

"Owwwww! What're you two doing?!" She rubbed her stinging nose. "See a dead bug on the road and stop to stare at it?! A neat _rock_?!"

"Don't be a fool," Scrib snapped back, his Orlesian accent softening the intended snipe. Édouard 'Scrib' Scriven, born in Kirkwall, raised in Orlais. And that was about as much as Jorna knew about him. That, and he really, _really_ shouldn’t have dairy. Years of sharing camps - and therefore latrines - had made that abundantly clear.

"Then what're you -"

Niva slapped her palms over both Jorna and Scrib's mouths. " _Both_ of you, _quiet_." Ever the smart one, Niva.

Niva stared at Scrib, then removed her hand after he nodded his head. She glared at Jorna, who licked her bare palm. Niva rubbed Jorna's spit off on the edge of her tunic and rolled her eyes. "I should've known better."

"There's a _d_ _arkspawn_ in the road, Jorna," Scrib said. His voice was soft, just like he'd promised, but it stank of smugness.

Jorna glared at him. She decided that Scrib actually _wasn't_ fine company after all. Still a damn fine Grey Warden. Just also had the unfortunate luck of being a prat.

Jorna looked further down the dirt trail that was leading them out of the Korcari Wilds and into the Hinterlands of Ferelden. The Fifth Blight had started and ended within a year, but even ten years after the Archdemon had been stuck with a thousand ballista bolts and killed half of the surviving Ferelden Grey Wardens, there were still plenty of darkspawn wandering around.

Fine, the Archdemon had killed _one_ out of _two_ surviving Ferelden Grey Wardens, after the rest of them had been wiped out at Ostagar the year prior. Still. That _was_ half of the surviving Ferelden Grey Wardens. Technically.

She looked over Scrib and Niva's shoulders at the rotting mass in the road. A Genlock, its guts spilled everywhere.

"Looks like boars" Jorna said with a shrug. "Or wolves. Or bears. Have you seen those bears? I mean, of course you have, you were there, but those bears are _tough_. They'd be able to take out a Genlock, no problem. Trample it, maul it with its claws, dig around and see if there was anything edible. And if it was _smart_ , it'd give up and leave it alone. If it was dumb..."

"Then we need to look out for a bereskarn," Niva finished. "Wonderful."

They drew their weapons. Scrib and Jorna edged towards the Genlock corpse while Niva notched and drew an arrow from a proper distance.

"A bereskarn...or a blight wolf...or a...Hey, what do you think they'd called a tainted boar? Boarskarn? Blight boar?"

"Shut _up_ , Jorna!" Scrib hissed.

Jorna rolled her eyes. "It's _dead_ , Scrib. Even a darkspawn can't keep on without a heart or a lung or a liver, and _look_." She gestured at the organs scattered around them with the tip of her dagger. "They're right there, and there, and there, laying in the dirt. _Outside_ of the Genlock. I dunno about you, but last I checked not much could live with its organs completely ripped out from its body, not even a darkspawn."

Her daggers dipped as she tilted her head. "Maybe undead darkspawn. Aren't they already undead, though? Wait, no, then there wouldn't need to be broodmothers."

" _Jorna,_ " Niva groaned. " _Focus_."

Jorna pointed her daggers at the Genlock corpse with a huff.

Turns out Jorna was right, though. The Genlock was dead, and nothing that wasn't supposed to be moving was moving, so it wasn't undead either. Just _dead_. And that's exactly the way Grey Wardens liked their darkspawn.

They'd been ordered to wander the Hinterlands for two months, slay any darkspawn they saw, note their populations (pre-slaying) and any aberrations (post-slaying), then report back to the headquarters in Orlais. Thankfully, they were in their last week of the assignment. They'd gone through at least a hundred darkspawn of all kinds, and seen double that from afar. Genlocks, Hurlocks, Shrieks, even Ogres. An awful lot of variety and population for a non-Blight.

They noted the dead Genlock in their records (solitary, cut open, organs everywhere, very dead) and added it to their count (Dead Genlocks: 28; Total Genlocks: 83). They doused the corpse in oil and sparked some flint on it to set it ablaze so no curious animals could come for a nibble. Jorna wondered what a nugskarn would look like.

They continued on, Scrib checking their position on the map he took out and stared at. They'd been in the Korcari Wilds just south of the Hinterlands for two days and only seen darkspawn corpses. As creepy as this part of the woods was, it was a nice little rest from the endless fighting they'd had to do to keep the live darkspawn and Hinterland bears at bay. They pressed on, ready to spend tonight _outside_ of the Korcari Wilds. Two nights had been more than enough, even _if_ there weren't any live darkspawn to fight.

The sun was centered above them in the sky when Scrib made them stop. Jorna retreated to the shade of a tree just off the path and fanned herself. Metal armor did not play nice with sunny days. "We lost, Scrib?"

But Scrib wasn't staring at his map. He stared at the woods ahead of them. "Do either of you see that?"

Jorna squinted. "Can't see much past that fog." Scrib sighed loudly. "Oh. The fog is what you meant."

"Just looks like fog," Niva said. "Fog's not so strange to see in a forest."

"Is it not strange to see fog _that_ thick when it's a very sunny and hot midday?" He gestured to the practically solid wall of cloud that blocked off the path in front of them.

"Maybe it's the Witch of the Wilds," Jorna said, scanning the woods around them.

"Not this again," Scrib grumbled. "Two days. _Two. DAYS_. Of you spouting on about some backwoods legend with no basis in reality. 'Haunted' this and 'cursed' that. Why be frightened of some hedge witch that no one's ever _seen_?"

"No one's seen me? Or is it that no one's bothered to do the looking?"

They jumped away from the old woman that'd appeared just behind them. How'd she come up on them without making a sound?

"Well, when do any of us truly _see_ each other." The old woman laughed. "Now, what are three Grey Wardens doing wandering around in my Wilds? And without even bringing me a welcome present. After I've gone through all the trouble of keeping trouble away from you."

"Was that Genlock your work?" Jorna was amazed. The old woman didn't carry any weapons. Unless those gnarled hands could turn to claws, how she'd gutted that darkspawn was a mystery.

The old woman laughed again. "And the others. Quite a few you didn’t stumble across though. Too bad. The cleanup would have been convenient."

"Are you...Flemeth?" Niva asked. Scrib's armor squeaked with how fast he whipped his head at her.

"Very good, girl. You know my name. Now, let's see if you tell me yours.”

”Niva, pleasure to meet you, Lady Flemeth.” 

” _Niva_! Everyone knows you don’t give your name to the Witch of the Wilds!” Jorna could’ve spat with surprise. “Then she’ll control you against your will!”

The old woman laughed again. “Plenty of people already control you, girl, without even knowing you exist. Usually they sit in very large chairs needing only the magic of gold to empower them.” She eyed Niva. "But you. Niva, was it? No need to throw 'Lady' in front of my name, but I do appreciate the effort."

"Lady Flemeth, if I may?" Scrib clicked his boots together and bowed, so _Orlesianly_. "I am Édouard Scriven. I implore you, good lady, to let us pass out of these Wilds."

"Hmm." Flemeth frowned. "Doesn't sound as charming from you. Just 'Flemeth' will do. And as far as I myself am concerned, you're welcome to leave these wilds any time you like."

Scrib twitched in surprise, then sank to one knee. Not a good sign, not at all. Scrib barely inclined his head to higher Wardens, now he was down on his knees in front of the Witch of the Wilds. Jorna gripped the hilt of one of her daggers. The woman must be more dangerous than she looked, and Jorna wasn't eager to get caught without some kind of weapon in her hand.

"My L...Flemeth." Scrib stuttered to skip over the niceties. The Witch of the Wilds, apparently, didn't have any time for that fluff. "You must be a very powerful mage, indeed. You clearly care for the Korcari Wilds, and you have done us a great kindness in keeping darkspawn away from us as we traveled through them. Our exit is cut off by your ward in front of us. I'd expect no less than a deadly ward from one who appears as powerful as you. We beg you, please lower the ward so we may leave."

Flemeth tilted her head back and looked down her nose at Scrib. Silence. Jorna started to bend the knee like Scrib but looked to Niva and saw her make no moves. More silence. Best not to move, maybe. Moving might startle the old woman, might look like an attack. Jorna kept her hand on her dagger. If the Witch of the Wilds took that as an actual threat, then she'd no idea that Jorna already knew it would be about as useful as spitting on a wildfire.

Flemeth finally snorted. "Get up, boy."

Scrib looked up at her. "Then you'll let us leave?"

"I've already told you," she said with a shake of her head and a hardness in her eye that made Jorna piss a little. "Leave any time you'd like, I'll not stop you."

"But...the ward..."

"I've no wards here. What good are wards? I'd just have to go and remake them every time some curious creature passed through. I may be old, but I've got plenty of other things that need tending to."

"Miss Witch of the Wilds?" Jorna called out. "He means that wall of fog there in front of - wait - behind us."

Flemeth gazed past the Wardens. "Ah. Now that _is_ curious."

"Will you lower it? Or blow it away or whatever it is witches do, Miss Witch of the Wilds?"

"I won't."

"What?!" Jorna'd thought she'd done a good job with calling her Miss Witch of the Wilds, staying enough away from 'Lady' but more formal-like than just 'Flemeth.' Had she pissed her off more? Jorna wished they were facing something less scary. Like an army of undead Ogres.

"That's no ward, not of mine, not of these Wilds. Perhaps...maybe." She tapped a dirty fingernail to her wrinkled cheek. "Yes, I think so."

"So you _can_ get rid of it?" Jorna's head was starting to feel as fuzzy as the fog in front of them.

"No." Flemeth walked towards the fog and reached a hand out. She waved it through the fog, which moved...like fog. Flemeth sniffed her hand, then licked it. She shook her head. "This is not of the Wilds, or of any place you or I have ever imagined, I believe."

"We're trapped here, then?" Scrib levered himself up to his feet, cursing in Orlesian.

Flemeth held up her gnarled hand and wiggled her crooked fingers, urging them closer to her. "Not yet trapped, no, but caution is a tool the wise wield well and often. I will go and seek out the truth in this fog. If I come back dead, then you better get used to calling these Wilds home."

"If you come back dead, Flemeth, then we wouldn't be far behind you." Niva'd kept her bow on her back and her arrows in her quiver. How was she not scared shitless? Or pissless, or spitless? "If it can take _you_ down, there's no hope for us."

Flemeth nodded at Niva. "As I said, caution is a tool the wise wield well. I'm almost relieved that at least you'll be here to look after those two."

Then Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, crazy old crone, disappeared into the wall of fog. They settled in to wait.

* * *

"What if she's not coming back?" Jorna asked. She'd asked it too often, she knew, but it'd been hours since the batty old goat had gone into that fog. "What if she's dead, or just a pisser, taking the long way round? Maybe she's laughing at us from behind a tree somewhere. 'Look at the stupid Wardens, afraid of a little fog.' I don't care if I look like a ripe idiot, I'm not waltzing into there, normal fog or not. Isn't normal, though, Scrib said it enough, it'd have disappeared by now."

"Jorna." Niva put a hand on Jorna's pauldron. "We have to trust Flemeth."

"We do not even know her." Scrib sucked air up his nose and hocked a big glob of ick into the forest. Jorna was impressed at the un-Orlesian-y-ness of it. Apparently all they'd needed to get Scrib to loosen up was to make him wait for hours in the hot sun. "We have no reason to trust her, no reason to think she would come back for us, _if_ she came back at all. Why do you insist we trust her?"

Niva leaned back against the tree they'd claimed for shelter from the sun. "Does it really matter why? We don't have any other options right now."

Scrib grumbled but went back to fanning himself and dabbing up his sweat as quickly as he made it.

"What I wouldn't give for a breeze," Jorna moaned, tugging at the edge of her breastplate. "It's hot enough I'd even put barmaiding, curse the word, back on the table if it meant being out of the damned sun."

Niva whistled. "That's pretty serious coming from you, Jorna."

A roar, ground-shaking, ear-deafening, heart-stopping made them all jump to their feet, weapons drawn as fast as they'd ever been, faster than the time they'd been ambushed by a gaggle of Shrieks and rogue Genlocks. Too loud to be a bear, or even an Ogre. Nothing could roar that loud. Nothing except a...

"Dragon?" Jorna prayed to whatever wanted to listen that she was wrong.

A storm of wind came bursting through the fog wall, pushing the clouds at them too fast to even react. Jorna covered her eyes against the bits of twigs and leaves and probably little bugs that came with the wind, feeling them sting her face and arms.

When the wind finally died, Jorna looked up slowly, daggers out, and cursed.

She'd been right after all.

The dragon had four wicked horns, a wickedly sharp snout, and a deep blood color all about it. They could see it through the tunnel of trees that the fog'd hidden from them. Branches snapped as another windstorm came their way, courtesy of the dragon's wings. Jorna shielded her eyes again, more bits and pieces flying at her.

When next Jorna looked up, she just about spat for surprise. The dragon was gone, the old woman was back. But not. Because the old woman hadn't been wearing a headdress with bright white hair done up like horns on either side of her head. The old woman hadn't been in a skin-tight suit of leather and feathers, blade-sharp edges to the armor on her legs and shoulders and fingers.

Flemeth sauntered down the path towards them, and Niva dropped to her knee. Jorna and Scrib practically dove for the dirt to do the same. She stopped in front of Niva and waited.

"Thank you, Mythal, for your assistance." Niva'd barely finished the words before Flemeth...or Mythal...started laughing.

Jorna watched Flemeth, or Mythal, or the dragon, or the Witch of the Wilds, cup Niva's chin and tilt her head up with a smirk. "You really are quite the clever girl, Niva. 'Flemeth' will still do."

"Thank you, Flemeth." Niva had the gall to look her straight in the eyes. Jorna'd have been dead of fright by then.

"I've cleared the way for you, Wardens." Flemeth said to the three of them. Best to go with the powerful woman's lead as far as what to call her, Jorna figured. "But I did not do it out of the goodness of my heart."

"You expect something in return?" Scrib shook his head. "What could we have to offer to one as powerful as yourself?"

" _You_ can offer me nothing, boy." Flemeth flicked her clawed hand at Scrib dismissively. " _Niva_ is the one who will be paying your debt. Make sure you thank her."

"Whatever you ask of me, I will do," Niva said.

Flemeth clicked her tongue. "Those words are more dangerous than you realize, my dear. Luckily, your onus will not be too heavy. It is this, and listen carefully."

The old woman bent and whispered something in Niva's ear. Jorna strained to try to hear what she was saying, but no matter what shape your ears came in, you could only hear so hard.

"I shall do as you ask," Niva finally said. Then Flemeth was gone in a puff of black smoke.

Jorna scrambled so hard to get to Niva that she was sure she'd torn something in some muscle somewhere, but she _had to know_. She grabbed Niva by the shoulders. "What'd she say, Niva? What'd she tell you to do?"

Her friend looked her in the eye. "Nothing that'll get in our way," she said with a shrug.

Jorna practically yowled. "Last bit was 'and don't tell anyone,' wasn't it?!" Niva said nothing, confirming Jorna's frustration. "Can you at least tell me why you called her Flemeth _and_ Mythal?"

Niva shrugged again. "Because she was."

"Fine." Jorna pushed Niva so she fell flat on her ass, huffed, then helped her stand.

Niva dusted herself off and righted her armor. "Good, it's all settled. Let's move forward."

Jorna and Scrib watched Niva stride down the sunny path. Jorna glared at the Orlesian prat, and he glared back.

"Not a word, understand?" Jorna hissed.

"None," Scrib huffed.

They nodded. If anyone found out that Niva'd made a promise to the Witch of the Wilds, she'd get gutted. Niva most likely wouldn't tell another soul, and Jorna had a good guess that Flemeth wouldn't either. That just left Jorna and Scrib to spill the dirt, and they weren't about to snitch on their fellow Warden. Not when it'd meant getting them all out of the Korcari Wilds.

As far as Jorna figured, only four people ever needed to know what happened today: their trio, and the old woman who could turn into a dragon.


	3. The Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus wakes up in the wrong neighborhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Garrus~

In stories, a single sensation will wake someone up from a deep sleep. A touch. A smell. A noise. The final flashes of a dream. Pain.

Unfortunately for Garrus, he was bombarded with all of these at once. He woke up just before the Normandy crash-landed. His entire body still hurt, sharp fire running along the line of his bones that were surely broken. His head rang from the concussion and the noise all around him, angry screeches and jeers and yelling. He kept getting flashes of scent, first the heated metal of the Normandy's hull and the dry grass of the planet it'd landed on, next a smell of rotten meat and unwashed bodies and sewage. A sharply pointed spear, wielded by a figure in shadow standing above him, put the final touch on his awakening.

The being jabbed him again. Whatever it was using to poke him wasn't cutting into him, but he felt its point far too much. It took him a minute to settle on why: they'd taken his armor. The only thing he had on was the thin layer of fabric that covered him from neck to ankle, but without his armor he might as well have been stark naked. No armor, no gun, no clue where he was or who was standing over him, poking him with a sophisticated stick.

Wherever he was, it was dimly lit, making it hard to see. It was even harder to hear, thanks to the riot of noise all around him. He strained to try to examine his surroundings, his head aching more as he looked around. No sun, no trees, no sky. Rock, so a cave, with light that moved and flickered. Firelight. Close smells and the heat of fires and too many living bodies. And rot. Rotting meat, sewage, blood, it was all heavy around him. He moved just a little and felt meat and bone underneath him, but no heat. A glance to the side confirmed it - he was laying on a pile of dead bodies.

Spirits, where was he?

The being standing over him, jabbing down at him, growled and seemed to yell something at him. His translator must not have been working, because it sounded like gibberish. The concussion probably wasn't helping matters, either. He concentrated, listening to the thing yelling at him. Not the trade tongue, Garrus would have been able to recognize it. If anything, it sounded like untranslated Vorcha, which would mean his translator chip was definitely on the fritz. The being wasn't like any Vorcha Garrus had seen, though. It was as tall as most of the humans he'd worked with, and had the general shape and bearing of one. The dim lighting made it hard to tell much more.

He tried one of the only Vorcha words he knew, some sort of insult that he didn't understand the full depth of but had heard among Vorcha in the Citadel. Even if he'd just insulted this being's entire family line, an angry reaction would prove he had the right language.

Instead, the being jumped back, pointing its spear at his face, growling and yelling. He'd surprised it, but it didn't seem angry. Not any angrier than it had been before he'd spoken, anyway. So, not Vorcha, then. He tried to speak to it in Turian, hoping that the being's translator chip would work. No luck, more growling and yelling. Garrus slowly sat up, hands raised in surrender, and tried the trade tongue. Same reaction. He got the feeling that this being might not have a translator chip at all. Its actions were undisciplined, all reaction and no strategy. The word 'primitive' came to mind. What backwater planet had they crashed on?

One last-ditch effort to communicate: the terran language English he'd learned from Shepard and the other humans of the Normandy. He'd had to figure out ways around the parts of terran English that required little things like lips and dextrous tongues. He was confident, though. His shipmates had said he had a remarkably good accent despite lacking those fleshier bits. Some of them might tend to flattery, but even Vega had said so. Vega and flattery went together about as well as...what was the terran phrase...a bull in a glass house? Close enough.

"I do not want to fight," he tried, squeezing his external mandibles closed and manipulating the muscles deeper in his throat.

The being jumped back again, but stopped growling and yelling. _Everything_ stopped growling and yelling. Garrus felt the pricks of eyes on him, and glanced around, now that he was sitting up. He couldn't tell how many of them there were, but he saw enough to know he was surrounded. The being with the spear growled something that still sounded like gibberish to Garrus, and motioned at the others around it, then turn and ran down a dark passageway that branched off of the cavern. Two other beings, one that looked like the first, and the other shorter and stouter, stood in front of him with spears of their own.

Campfires dotted the close cavern they were in. There seemed to be a few kind of beings around him: ones that seemed almost human; the short, stout ones; and beings that had long limbs and distended jaws, tall and gangly. Strewn about the cavern were weapons, within easy reach of each being. Many of them held dripping chunks in their hands. He saw one tear into a chunk with sharp teeth, something dripping down from its fingers, all while keeping its eyes on him.

His observations were interrupted by thumps coming from the dark passageway. Something large enough to make the ground shake with each step was coming. The first being emerged into the firelight, a hulking mass behind it. The thing was huge, horned, and strong. Beady-eyed and thick-jawed. A predator that surely stood at the very top of the food chain.

But it stepped to the side, and another being emerged into the cavern.

It was tall, at least a good two feet taller than Garrus, and thin, with long, sharp claws at the end of its five-fingered hands. It seemed to wear robes of some kind, with gold and other metal ornaments, much more sophisticated than the others around them. Its face was human, twisted in a few ways but recognizable.

It sized Garrus up, then gestured to the being that had gone to fetch it. The thing grunted, put away its spear, and stomped over to Garrus, pulling him off of the pile of bodies and to his feet. Garrus' vision swam from his concussion, and his knees almost buckled. He was able to stay on his feet and carefully kept his hands raised, wanting to make sure that their leader knew he wasn't going to resist. Not yet.

"You are alive," the leader said, only a little surprised. His voice was deep and conversational, and he spoke the terran English Garrus had used earlier. "And you seem awakened. Tell me, have you always possessed your own mind?"

"Yes," he answered uncertainly. The leader spoke strangely, but Garrus thought he'd gotten the gist.

"Fascinating. And do you follow the Call, the song, like these?" He swept a long arm around the cavern. "Or can you ignore it, as I do?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about. What call?"

The leader stepped forward, sharply focused on Garrus. "Fascinating," it murmured again. "You...are no darkspawn, are you?"

Garrus shook his head. "I'm a Turian."

"A...hmm..." The being considered this. "I have been alive a long time, and not idly, either. I gather information, research, experiment. Very little is unknown to me, and yet...I have not heard of a 'Turian.' Do you have a name?"

"Garrus Vakarian."

"I am currently called The Architect." His eyes were covered with a metal mask that spread from his cheeks to one side of the protrusion on top of his head, yet his gaze seemed to penetrate through it. "How did you come to be here, Garrus Vakarian the Turian?"

Garrus shrugged. "If I had to guess, I'd say one of your people found me after I fell unconscious and brought me here."

The Architect nodded. "There are enough similarities that these less awakened ones could have easily made the mistake. I would think that others may make the same mistake. You are lucky, then, that we found you first."

Garrus thought of the pile of bodies behind him. "Why's that?"

The Architect tilted his head. "Because if another had found you, they would have killed you."

"Are the people of this planet hostile?" These beings already seemed plenty hostile to Garrus. If they were the peaceful ones, then maybe he really _was_ lucky that they found him first.

"Yes, although they can turn on each other, all are hostile towards those like us. To the darkspawn. Not without reason, I'm afraid. I am working towards undoing that." He sighed. "It is slow work. But for the moment, I have a more interesting quandry in front of me: what to do with you, Garrus Vakarian the Turian?"

No good outcome started with that kind of question. "While I'm grateful that you rescued me from being killed while I was unconscious," he said slowly, "I think it'd be best if I was on my way."

The Architect flung out a long-fingered hand, light emanating from its limb. The same light encompassed Garrus, lifting him off the ground slightly and crushing in on his body. _So, this planet has biotics, then,_ Garrus thought, struggling to breathe against the pressure and the pain of surely broken ribs.

"I would not recommend that, Garrus Vakarian the Turian." The Architect's voice seemed full of sympathy. "If you leave, you will most certainly be killed." The Architect lowered his hand, the biotic energy around Garrus disappearing and setting him back on his feet. "Consider staying with us. You may not be a darkspawn, but you are welcome here. You possess more than enough intelligence to become one of my Disciples. The past attempts to create more have been...unsuccessful, as of yet. I would welcome your presence."

"Do I have a choice, Architect?" Waiting for the answer, Garrus considered his next move carefully. In his injured state, and without any armor, he was vulnerable to physical attacks. His carapace protected him against radiation, not weapons or fists. He had his own strength, speed, and training, but was also heavily injured. He had no idea where he was in relation to the surface of the planet. They had weapons, and he had none. And their leader was a biotic. There was no telling who else in this chamber was a biotic as well. There was one other passageway off the cavern. If he was fast - and lucky - he could make it to whatever lay beyond it.

The Architect raised his hand again, but instead of another burst of biotic energy, he gently waved towards the other passageway. The others growled but moved, opening a path between Garrus and his maybe-exit. "Yes, you do, Garrus Vakarian the Turian. Any Disciple worth having would choose to stay. Someday, I think, you'll come back and choose differently. Until that day, I wish you well."

"...And my armor?" The Architect stayed silent and the room shifted uneasily. "Alright then. I'll be on my way."

He backed away, keeping the Architect and the others in his sights until he reached the mouth of the passageway, then turned and ran.

"Take paths that lead upwards," the Architect called after him, his deep voice echoing off the rough stone walls. "And hurry...the others will not wait for much longer."

Garrus held in a curse and tried to run faster. It was harder to see, sporadic torches leaving long stretches of the passageways dark. He'd taken his first turn into a passageway with an upward slope when the wave of growls and howls echoed towards him in the darkness. At least he didn't have his protective, well-fitting armor to slow him down.

No. Survival first. Sarcasm later.

Survival first.

Survival.

_Survive_.


	4. The Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio finds out exactly what Flemeth's promise requires from Niva, and they are _not_ happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Jorna~

Jorna nagged Niva over and over again to tell her what Flemeth had made her promise. She couldn't help herself, and lucky her that Niva happened to be a very good friend. Didn't mean that Niva spilled the beans, more like Niva wasn't as bothered as Scrib was by Jorna's constant questions. Niva'd long learned how to ignore her friend when necessary. Not Scrib, though.

"Jorna, please, I beg of you, _stop your endless stream of questions_ ," Scrib sighed wearily. He poked at their small campfire with a stick, more to have something to do than to help the fire. "You already know all that you are going to know. There is no point in continuing to ask your inane questions!"

Jorna knew that Scrib wasn't the patient kind of friend, not like Niva or Ferda or a few of the elves when she was in the Alienage. Jorna knew that she _needed_ patient kinds of friends, too. Scrib was out of luck getting stuck in a team with her.

But this wasn't just any round of questions. "Scrib, how can you _not_ what to know what Niva promised to a lady who can _turn into a dragon_?! Doesn't it eat you up inside, not knowing?!"

" _No_ ," Scrib snipped impatiently. "Niva has promised that it will not interfere with our duties here in the Hinterlands, and that woman said the burden of the promise would not be too great for Niva to bear. That is all I need know."

"But is it all you _want_ to know, Scrib? Huh? You might not care but I _gotta_ know!" She turned to her friend, quieter than was normal, even for her. "I know you're Niva the Secret-Keeper, but _come on_ , Niva! Tell me what you promised her!"

Niva shook her head. "I can't, Jorna. You know the very end of the promise - 'and promise not to tell anyone.' That was the _one_ thing I was allowed to share. Everything else..." Niva stared out at the road. Her look was hazy and worrisome, the kind of look someone has when they daydream something bad.

"'Everything else' _what_?!" Jorna was dying to know, and she'd take any scraps of the secret she could get.

"Everything else should be clearer tomorrow. Hopefully." She glanced sideways at Jorna, not exactly measuring her - Niva knew how Jorna'd measure up, she was sure. She was more worried, more like she wasn't sure things actually _would_ be clearer.

Jorna opened her mouth to argue back, then shut it quickly. A thought had grown from Niva's sideways look: What if Niva didn't know the details, either? But Jorna couldn't ask that, because that'd be asking for a detail, which Niva couldn't share anyway, so if she asked she'd just be blowing hot air for nothing.

She groaned loudly instead. " _Fine_ , fine. It's been a day, anyway. Trapped in a scary forest, saw a witch lady who could turn into a dragon and is also a god?! You didn't really explain that one, Niva, _but fine_ \- " she held up her hands to Scrib, stopping his next snip. "Short of it is we had a very busy day and we should sleep."

Scrib tossed his stick into the campfire. "On that we can all agree."

Jorna took the first watch, too squirrely to sleep right away with the waterwheel of thoughts churning in her head. A normal, boring night in the Hinterlands between all three watches. A better than normal night, actually - only one bear attack.

Dawn had them picking up and heading out, on towards wherever Niva's promise would start. Or end. Or middle? She wouldn't know until they found whatever thing they needed to find for this promise. And they couldn't help Niva look for whatever the promise was because _they didn't know what it was_.

They made their way north, fighting more darkspawn and updating their records. There really shouldn't have been any darkspawn around. With all the sketchy business that had gone on in Adamant a few months before, Jorna'd thought they'd have their hands full with demons and demons and more demons. While they'd found the occasional demon, there were hundreds more darkspawn. For no reason.

No reason they could tell, at least. And they were Grey Wardens! If anyone _should_ know, it _should_ be them! They'd even had Hurlock emissaries and Shriek rogues with poisoned blades! Seemed like the stuff that Corypheus thing would be responsible for. Seemed like Corypheus was a giant darkspawn. Why weren't the Wardens helping kill it? Another question that Jorna didn't have the answer to. Were the Wardens and the Inquisition enemies? Add that one to the list.

Mid-morning Niva took over navigating, leading them northwest. Scrib got confused and angry. They were already west enough that they'd miss Redcliffe if they kept going, but Niva wasn't stopping. She wouldn't tell them where she was leading them, just stayed real quiet. Jorna smacked Scrib's shoulder hard to shut his grumbling when she figured out that Niva was on her way to whatever the promise was.

They found a river, a nice little waterfall at one end, and sounds of druffalo and horses a ways across it. Niva turned and followed the river down until things opened up suddenly on their right. Seemed like a whole bunch of sheltered ravines, hidden unless you knew to look for it. Part of the promise? Niva still wouldn't say. She told them to spread out and look around. Wolves and spiders, which they killed quick, not much else. They went deeper into the ravines. More wolves and spiders, and then a cave. But not what Niva was looking for. "We've got to go to the lake."

They trekked back, Niva first making for the bottom of the lake, then spinning and trudging towards the top instead. The longer it took her to find the thing she was looking for, the twitchier Niva got, which made Jorna itchy. Scrib kept grumbling but didn't try to stop them. Keeping a promise to a dragon-witch-god was very important, couldn't be helped, had to be done. 'As soon as possible' seemed to be what Niva wanted, and Scrib was begrudgingly fine with that.

Jorna could've been knocked over by a feather when Niva led them behind a waterfall to a wooden door flanked by two dwarven statues. "How'd you know this was here, Niva?"

Niva was too busy pulling the door open and running through to answer.

Jorna downright gasped. The sky was above them, with tall cliffs rising up. Trees and green everywhere, a bigger dwarf statue looking down on them. They'd gone down and through the waterfall to some kind of chasm behind it. Up some stairs and through a door and Jorna gasped again. She was going to make herself lightheaded with all this gasping, but she couldn't help it. The chasm got bigger, huge trees growing up towards the sky and another waterfall, ginormous, falling down in front of them. The chasm was deep, deeper than Jorna could see, or maybe that was the mist from the waterfall. It ran long, too, far as she could see to the right. Bridges and houses and doors and torches and pulleys bigger than a waterwheel hanging from the ceiling. Birds flying carefree through the empty space of the chasm, even though the sky was high above them.

Jorna's first question was, "What's in those barrels up there, you think?" Barrels that would've been at home in Ferda's brewery hung on wooden platforms high in the air over the chasm.

Her second question, asked as they crossed the bridge between two _even bigger_ dwarven statues, their mauls alight with a fire big enough to warm a camp of twelve each, was probably more important. "Where _is_ everybody?" Rubble was around, dust and dirt, must've been hundreds of years since anyone'd really occupied wherever this was. Plenty of footprints, though. Things were here, had to be.

Scrib had a question of his own. "She knows exactly where she's going." He wasn't mad, just plain dumbfounded. "When has she been here?"

Niva ran on, and Jorna and Scrib after her. Up some stairs, across a terrace, down more stairs, and more. This second floor was just a touch darker, a few more torches, a lot more mist. Across a shorter bridge between lots of doors, all that Niva ignored. Another terrace, and more stairs. Finally, a smaller ledge, and Niva staring at an opening between rocks.

It didn't look like anything to be worried about, a dark opening but not like a bear could squeeze itself through it. Baskets of abandoned rocks were around them, and broken boards and rope. Jorna peered into it. It went back a lot farther than it looked. She took in a big sniff.

Darkspawn.

The opening _reeked_ of darkspawn. It was hard to describe what a darkspawn smelled like, but Jorna'd a keener nose than most - part of what made her a more than decent cook. She pulled out her daggers, and Scrib drew his blades, too.

Niva maybe didn't notice, maybe didn't care, but she was too busy staring at the drips of some kind of blue ink everywhere. She tracked the ink, then ran down a rickety wood-and-rope bridge that Jorna very much didn't like the look or feel off, following the dots. She stared at a weird kind of shape in the blue ink that was smeared on a boulder at the end of the bridge. Like a kid writing a 'w' but didn't quite know how it looked. Dots, and some blotches, led them back up different stairs and across the short bridge again, into a doorway.

Was the ink what Niva had to look for? Had she known it? If she had, she would've noticed the ink _before_ they ran down and up the stairs, right?

Barrels must've been ale and spirits and wine, because the room they'd walked in on had quite a few. A camp was set up, long cold, and rugs with dwarven patterns woven into them were falling apart on the floor. But still, Niva ran, straight to a tall door that was part open, another blue 'w' on the most open side. Jorna and Scrib were more careful, walking in slowly, looking for hidden enemies. This room was large, lots of once-shiny gold goblets and vases and boxes scattered around. More mildewy rugs, some big gilt frames. A giant bird statue, for some reason.

Niva stood on the platform in the center in a beam of sunlight that wasn't supposed to be there but was, thanks to a cave-in that looked to have happened before any of them were even born. She looked scared, and kind of lost. Not lost herself, but like she'd lost something, and she needed to find it again. Jorna was going to ask her what until a groan froze all three of them.

It was a weird sound. Had to be a groan, sounded like whatever'd made it was in pain, but _what'd_ done it was the question. Sounded like two people, and a squawk, and a hiss, all rolled into one.

Niva looked to the door at the other end of the room. The groan'd come from through there and she ran through it. Another groan, from Scrib, sour. "I hope whatever Niva is looking for is worth all of the running we're doing."

Jorna glared at Scrib. "Niva's done nothing but been a great Warden and a good friend, you stuck-up prick. You could at least figure out how to be one of those back to her." She pushed Scrib so he stumbled and walked after her friend.

And found her.

On the other side of the door.

Kneeling next to a body.

It wasn't elf, human, dwarf, or Qunari. Looked closer to darkspawn, but it wasn't like any darkspawn she'd seen. But it _did_ look dead. Especially with bolts, arrows, and a spear sticking out of it. Blue splotches of ink, heavy here, colored the way, and a pool of it starting to gather around the body.

"Niva?" But Niva didn't pay her any mind, just stared at the body. Stepping closer, Jorna still didn't have a clue what the thing was. Like a Hurlock mated with a terror demon, but the skin was grey like stone. Mightn't be naked at least, she thought, but she wasn't sure what was skin and what was clothes.

Niva reached for the weapons stuck into the thing like a pincushion. Her hands were shaking. She pulled them back and patted at her pockets and pack, and pulled a healing potion out. A good one. A _really_ good one, one of the ones they saved for emergencies.

" _Niva_?" Jorna tried again. She kept her daggers at the ready.

Niva didn't pay her any mind. She uncorked the bottle with her teeth and lifted the limp thing up. "God, I really hope this doesn't kill you," she said, then shoved the bottle into what was probably its mouth.

" _Niva!_ " Scrib had finally joined them, his own blades ready. "What are you doing?!"

Half the bottle gone, then Niva pulled it back and laid the thing out again, beginning to pull the arrows and bolts and spear out. The blue hadn't been ink, then, but its blood, because it spurted out of its wounds and coated the bolts and arrows and spear. Niva's hands were stained blue when she turned the thing over and shoved the bottle back into its maw.

"She's reviving an aberration," Scrib turned and hissed at Jorna. "Why is she reviving an aberration?!"

The thing's limbs twitched and its body bucked, shaking and shaking. Niva cursed and went to hold the thing down, then cursed again and took her bedroll off her pack. Niva lifted its head and placed part of her bedroll under it, then pulled it on its side and arranged its spasming limbs.

" _Jorna!_ " Scrib grabbed the front of her tunic and shook her, forcing her to look at him. "It has taken Niva's mind, even in near-death, and now she's reviving it! That thing will kill us all if it revives - look at how many bolts it took to fell it!" He shook her again, so hard she bit her tongue and tasted blood. "We have to kill it before it gets back on its feet!"

The loud rushing of the waterfall covered up any sound that wasn't shouting. Otherwise Jorna would've heard the creak of Niva drawing her shortbow. The arrow cut through the few inches between Jorna and Scrib. She felt the breeze of it brush across her nose before she knew it had flown by. They looked back at Niva. Already had her next arrow drawn and ready.

"I won't let you kill him," she shouted above the roar of the waterfall.

Scrib found his tongue again quickly. "' _Him_?!' Niva, listen to yourself! You are calling that _thing_ a ' _him_!' Darkspawn are not like us, do not fool yourself into thinking otherwise!"

"He's not a darkspawn." Niva's face was as sad as Jorna'd ever seen it, begging them to understand. The thing's twitching was slowing down, didn't seem to be bleeding as much now.

Scrib was trying to sneak around the side of Niva, but her arrow and eyes followed him. Jorna knew as sure as the sun rose in the day that he'd be expecting Jorna to attack while he had Niva's attention. No luck for the Orlesian prat on that. It was time for inane questions.

Jorna pointed her daggers at the ground but made sure Niva'd still see them if she looked over. "Tell us what's happening! Tell _me_ what's happening, Niva!"

" _Jorna_!" Scrib snapped angrily.

"He's _not_ a darkspawn!" She yelled it at Scrib, her bow drawing back a fraction more.

"If _he's_ not a darkspawn then what is _he,_ Niva?!" She saw it make her friend's spine straighter, her shoulders stronger. Being believed did that to a person. Jorna'd gotten through. 

"He's...he's my promise, Jorna." Less loud, less desperate but Jorna heard her all the same.

"That _witch_ made you promise to keep a darkspawn aberration alive, _and you agreed?!_ " Scrib's disgust was drawn plain as dirt on his face.

Niva's shoulders went up and down - a deep breath, quiet compared to the waterfall.

And fired.

* * *

Jorna'd no love for Scrib, but she'd no hate for him either.

She felt her mouth hanging open as Scrib crumpled like a wet rag, Niva's arrow stuck deep in his chest. She'd gotten him clean through the heart.

Niva'd pulled another arrow and drawn her bow in a second, facing Jorna. Jorna's daggers still faced the ground, and she kept them that way. Niva was aiming for her heart.

"Jorna, I -"

"Hush, Niva." Jorna tucked her daggers away and walked past her friend kneeling next to a rousing aberration. Jorna felt at Scrib's neck, making sure he was dead, then drug the corpse to the edge of the platform and kicked it into the chasm.

"Jorna?"

She couldn't turn around. Wouldn't. Didn't even want to. "Niva. When I get back to Orlais, I'm going to tell them Scrib died in a darkspawn ambush." Still thankful for the waterfall hiding the awkward stops Jorna had to make to keep her head above her feet. "I'll say the same for you. More believable."

Jorna thought she heard a 'thank you,' and had to get gone, anywhere but here. No looking back. Not at Niva kneeling next to a who-knows-what. Not at Niva, her oldest friend who'd just killed their prat of a traveling companion with barely any attempt at reasoning with him. Not at the ledge where Jorna'd pushed the corpse into what might've just as well been the abyss.

She dropped her pack and walked over the long bridge that had gotten them in here. No looking back, not at Niva, not at the city behind a waterfall, not at the twisted thing that Flemeth had made Niva promise to keep alive. No looking back, just forward.

Hopefully the high-ups would believe that Jorna was the only survivor. Leaving her pack was a good start. She might need to get into some kind of fight, get hurt to make it more believable, but she'd worry about that after she was out of this chasm, of the Hinterlands, maybe even after she was out of Ferelden. She'd take her time and let herself think. The high-ups would have questions. Questions that they wouldn't wait patiently for her to answer.

Jorna wished her friend luck, because she was pretty sure that Niva'd just run fresh out of it.


	5. The Proper Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus realizes he's not dead and makes a new friend who probably won't murder him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Garrus~

Garrus woke. Flickering light. Another campfire. But no growls, no rotting meat, no sharp sticks poking him. Things were already looking up.

And another pleasant surprise: he wasn't dead.

He sat up slowly. There was a dull ache in his head. Make that a dull ache _everywhere_. The fact that it was only a _dull_ ache was yet another pleasant surprise. Unless he'd been dunked in a tub of medi-gel, it should have taken a lot longer for his injuries to heal this much.

He wondered how long he'd been out.

He could ask the human sitting next to him.

The...

"Human?"

The human jumped. Their eyes were wide, eyebrows raised. A surprised look, if he was interpreting that right.

"Is _that_ what Turian sounds like?!" Their voice was lighter than Shepherd's or Vega's. Longer fringe, closer to Miranda's. A female human, probably, if he was interpreting that right as well.

She knew he was Turian, but had heard his speech untranslated. He was beginning to think that translator chips hadn't made it to this planet yet.

He tightened his external mandibles and manipulated his vocal chords. "Yes."

She opened her mouth and slowly drew in a breath. More surprise, it seemed. "Oh my god."

"Something wrong?"

She shook her head. "I didn't think you'd sound like _you_." It was unclear how he should interpret that.

"Maybe we should start with introductions." He offered his hand, and realized that a cloth bandage had been wrapped around it to stabilize his wrist. "I'm -"

"Garrus Vakarian. Is Shepard dead?"

"Yes." It was a fact: Shepard was dead. Right now, he could deal with facts. Facts were objective. Facts meant survival. Feelings could wait. Ignore that brief pause he took before he answered her.

She nodded, unsurprised. "So you crashed...and ended up here?"

"I was topside first. Seemed like a terran forest. I passed out from my injuries. Some other beings found me and brought me back to their den. I escaped."

"Can you describe them?"

He touched a hand to his head, feeling more bandages. The human had been thorough. "They had a leader, called himself the Architect."

"The..." She stared at the fire, then covered her face with her hands and muffled a loud groan. "I can't believe I forgot..."

"You're familiar with the Architect, and the darkspawn?" Good thing he had spent enough time with humans that he could read them with some skill, and that this human had similar displays of emotion.

"It's kind of my whole 'deal,'" she pointed to the armor on her torso. Something with wings was embossed on the front. "Grey Wardens. Basically the Spectres of this world."

"You're associated with the Spectres? Can you get in touch with the Citadel?"

"No. The Citadel doesn't exist here." She shifted, uncomfortable but trying hard not to show it.

A planet untethered to the Citadel was unusual, but not completely unheard of. "Is this planet allied with anyone else?"

She paused long enough for Garrus to note it. "You need to rest. I used the best healing potion we had on you, but you're nowhere near fully healed. I have to save the others for emergencies. Where's your armor?"

"The Architect took it. Any chance you have a spare in my size?" She shook her head. "Had to give it a shot. Speaking of shots, how about an extra pistol?"

She tapped something that looked like wooden sticks held together with string and metal. "Found you a crossbow. It's as close as you're going to get."

"I'm better with a sniper rifle, but I won't be picky at this point."

"If I had a sniper rifle, it'd be yours. You'll have to make do with the crossbow. I figured you'd be more comfortable with at least _some_ kind of weapon."

"Fair enough. I still don't know your name, though."

"Niva."

"Niva. Thanks for patching me up."

Niva pulled something from a pack next to her and handed it to Garrus. "I'm not sure what works for Turians, but this is some jerky. It's made from something close to a cow." She paused. "If...you know what a cow is..."

"Meat of some kind?" She nodded. "Should be fine."

"Good. Here." She slid the crossbow towards him. "Point and shoot, but you've only got one shot, and it's just an arrow bolt, okay? No high-tech lasers."

"Where are you off to?"

She nodded to the jerky. "That's the last meat ration I've got. I'm fine to live off hardtack, but I don't think it'll agree with your particular digestive system."

"You don't have to-"

"It's a long way to travel. It's better to get food now. There won't always be shelter as secure as this." She gestured to the room they were in. Well-carved and decorated stone, large wooden cylinders lined along the wall, one stone door entrance he could see from his position but there was a corner of the room he didn't have eyes on. "If I gather supplies now, we'll be better off for starting our journey."

" _Our_ journey?"

She smiled wearily. "I wouldn't have done all that healing and bandaging if I was going to abandon you to die."

"Fair point." Garrus leaned his back against the wall, crossbow at the ready. "I'll keep watch over camp until you get back, then. And thanks."

"Don't thank me yet." She left, securing the door behind her. He'd have to trust that the part of the room outside of his vision was secure as well.

Garrus tried the dried meat. Not quite a flavor he recognized, but familiar enough that as far as he could tell it should be edible for him. He ate and studied the crossbow's trigger mechanism. Simple mechanics, that was all. Seemed like this planet was a lot more primitive than he thought.

But Niva had known about the Citadel, and the Spectres, and lasers. She'd said they didn't exist. But if she knew enough about them to say they didn't exist _here_... And how she had already known his name before he'd introduced himself?

The dull ache wasn't feeling so dull anymore, but the food helped, and the campfire's heat made him drowsy. He stretched out on the thin, flexible mattress he'd woken up on, keeping the crossbow within reach. Resting now wasn't the smartest move, and if he accidentally fell asleep? Well, he'd just have to rely on his training to wake him if he was in danger.

His training, and Niva.

He was still awake, if barely, when Niva returned with her hunting spoils and several large bunches of herbs. Once she was back, he drifted in and out for some time, vaguely recalling changed bandages and broth and the smell of meat cooking over an open fire.

And her sniffing and coughing, and trying to be quiet about it, just before he finally fell into a deep sleep.


	6. The Safehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus takes a long journey with his new companion to find a safe hideout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Garrus~

She woke him and handed him a pack. He shouldered it, the straps a little tight. Clearly made for someone without the particular bone structure of a Turian. Non-adjustable, unfortunately, but having something tight across his shoulders and digging into his collar wasn't too big of a burden. Not when it was filled with supplies that she had carefully gathered, prepared, and packed. He didn't say anything, but she noticed. She took the pack from him and cut the top of one strap and the bottom of the other, tying them together. It fit across his chest comfortably now. He tried to thank her, but she waved him off.

"Don't thank me yet."

It seemed to be her own personal motto.

In his woozy, wounded haze he hadn't been able to take in his surroundings before falling unconscious, only knowing that he had to head towards light. As they left their shelter, he saw they were in some kind of ruins in a chasm that opened up to the sky. It was dark, most likely the dead of night.

"The moons haven't risen yet," she said. "We'll travel until we see them, then find shelter."

"Taking extra precautions," he said with a nod. "Do the people of this planet really hate those darkspawn enough to attack without reason?"

"Yes. Plus you don't _just_ look like a darkspawn."

Despite being fairly healed, stairs were still difficult for him. He must have broken a bone in his leg _and_ torn a tendon or two. They felt on the mend, but walking wasn't fun. She supported him as they descended, shoulder tucked up into his side and trying to keep the weight off the worse leg. Difficult, given that he was a foot and some inches taller than her.

"What else do I look like, then?" Her position made it difficult for Garrus to see her face.

"A demon." She detached at the bottom of the stairs and strode ahead. He figured he'd wait to ask her what that meant.

They were able to travel for a few hours, slowly thanks to him, then found a cave when the first of the planet's two moons started to rise.

It seemed to be an abandoned animal den. She covered the low entrance with foliage, and they agreed to watches, just in case. Very thorough. Her thoroughness was a good sign of her character, but it wasn't exactly comforting. She'd let a worried look slip once or twice, very briefly, but it was enough to tell Garrus that things would be bad if someone found them. The thoroughness, the precautions, were all necessities.

They continued on like that, traveling during the darkest hours of night, then hiding from the moonlight and during the day. Which meant a lot of time sitting around, waiting for the right time to travel. In those times, he asked her about the planet, the people who lived here. She told him quite a lot - the races called elves, dwarves, and qunari, along with humans and darkspawn. The main countries and empires, some more advanced than others, but she made sure he knew that 'advanced' was still nowhere near what he was used to. Religions, politics, and some major historical events. A few important customs. How the races, political factions, religions, and any combinations thereof generally regarded one another depending on where on the planet you were.

She deflected most of the questions about herself.

They were traveling southwest, she told him. The land had plenty of game and very few settlements, making it ideal for their travel. They passed the occasional remnants of what he assumed were houses, seemingly torn through then left to rot. She'd still made him hide while she searched the ruined homes for supplies in the dark.

She found a hooded cloak in one of them. Not quite long enough to cover him, but at least it was something. It was the first time he'd seen her look relieved.

With the cloak, they could travel in the moonlight. She still kept them to the shadows, but they made faster progress thanks to his healing and the extra travel time. She led them around a large mountain range, taking a few weeks to skirt the foothills as they continued west. The vegetation became thicker and greener than the forest they'd started in, the temperature warmer and much more pleasant for him.

They found a large complex, ornate and abandoned. She had him hide again as she scouted it, declared it safe, and chose a room near the exterior. Thick fabric curtains still hung in front of the windows, and she pulled one from a different room, along with a plain brown dress she'd found. She took a sewing kit from her pack and set to work on the curtain. The room was secure and their supplies were low, so they stayed in the complex a few nights. During the day, she would gather and hunt. He was stuck in the room, carefully instructed to keep resting and healing and hiding. At night, she would sew.

The first night there, he finally asked her about the biotics of this planet. She made a face that took him a minute to identify as confusion. He explained biotic abilities, which sparked some memory of hers, and she explained that there weren't biotics here, but people who could do 'magic.'

"Come on, you're not serious," he'd said, sure she was trying to fool him.

Her needle danced in and out of the light from the warm fire in the hearth of the room they had occupied. "Serious. Probably a lot of similarities, but some mages can create whirlwinds of fire, or ice storms, or hurl lightning at you." She said it as if it was the most common thing in the world. And perhaps it was, for this planet. Maybe the biotics had just evolved beyond what he'd seen.

The next night, the more she explained the 'magic' of this planet, the less he thought it was a form of differently evolved biotic abilities. Especially after she told him about the parallel plane of existence. It sounded more religious than real, but she talked about it with with enough certainty and enough detachment that it must actually exist. Which made 'magic' something very, very different from biotics.

The third night, she came back from her hunt and set it to cooking over the fire, and settled down with her needle and thread. Instead of starting on the curtain again, she held out her hand. "Give me your cloak." He watched her remove the hood from the cloak and sew it onto her creation. The black hood stood out from the red cloth, but she seemed satisfied. She transferred the clasp as well.

The new cloak was too long. She was almost finished fixing the length when a few books violently flew off of a shelf and slammed loudly on the marble floor.

Her face became pale, a human sign of fear. "I thought the ghosts had been taken care of."

"Ghosts?"

The needle danced faster. "Maybe one of the outer buildings is okay. Just a few more stitches..." She cursed as the needle pierced her skin. Good thing the fabric was red. She cursed again. "I haven't looked for a mask yet!"

"I'll take care of it." Garrus left the room before she could stop him. He was well-healed, now, fine to move around on his own after weeks on the road. She still hadn't let him help with anything except watches, making him itch for something to do. How hard would it be to find a mask?

Turns out, very hard. He went from room to room, opening drawers and chests, scanning the walls. He knew to look for a mask that would fit _him_ , but where people kept masks was a mystery. One he was determined to solve. He could at least find his own mask. Couldn't he?

The rooms he searched at first yielded nothing. A few of them had falling books. A few others had floating objects. He opened and then immediately shut the door to one of the rooms after seeing a green glow. Nothing he'd seen in this world had a given off light in that color, so he thought it was safest to assume that he didn't want to know what did.

He finally found one in a random bedchamber. It was a simple metal mask, with a few gold flourishes welded to the surface. It would cover his face easily. The mouth's opening was shaped in a grimace, and the eyeholes seemed deep and haunted. A menacing thing. His awareness of the room around him sharpened, despite the fact that he was alone. Maybe these ghosts were getting to him after all.

She'd finished the cloak and packed their things when he returned. Relief at his return, probably a little annoyance that he'd taken off, then a flash of excitement for his find and to get out of the complex, away from the moving objects and green glows.

They managed to shut and secure the doors that ringed an outside building. The floor was polished stone and cold. The warmth of the day didn’t seem to get through the stone exterior, but she wouldn't risk a fire. He was glad for his new cloak, although a fire really would have been nice. It was definitely the cold that kept him up. Not the ghosts. Not at all.

They were both tired and eager to leave by the time night fell.

They finally turned north, and the landscape became sparse and hot. At points, the land seemed scorched, literally burning. The cloak was heavy and hot, the metal mask difficult to see out of, but traveling by night helped. Even with the mask, she refused to walk by day. Still thorough. Still afraid. Maybe a little more optimistic about their chances of survival, though.

The sparse landscape eventually became green again, and they neared the first large settlement he had seen on this planet.

She made him hide, as usual, while she traveled into town and secured lodging. She left behind her regular clothing - her blue tunic, her silver armor embossed with what she'd told him was a griffin - and changed into the dress she'd taken from the haunted complex. Simple, plain, unnoticeable. Perfect for passing undetected through a busy city.

She returned hours later. They waited until the sun went down. More hours passed by as she made excuses to wait until she finally ran out of them. She fussed over his cloak and mask, adjusting both slightly as she made sure his disguise was secure.

"Don't let anyone brush up against you," she told him, readjusting the clasp yet again. "Walk with your head held high, tilted up, like you're better than everyone else."

Noble and servant, she told him. Especially with his height, he'd appear intimidating. There was no way people weren't going to notice him, even if they took the backstreets. "It's not a typical noble's mask," she said nervously, tilting it slightly in the other direction than she had tilted it a few moments before.

He gently pushed her hand away. "It'll be fine."

She stared at his hand, the color draining from her face. "Keep them hidden underneath your cloak." She muttered something about gloves and rags as she packed up, holding onto both packs.

"Follow me, don't talk, don't-"

"Don't let anyone touch me, don't show my hands, and act stuck up. I got it."

Luckily for them, the journey to the inn was uneventful. It was late enough that very few people were on the streets, and even the backstreets were quiet. The building was unassuming, a wooden structure a few streets back from one of the larger roads. A drowsy human-like person, with pointed ears, large eyes, and a flat nose, opened the door to their knock, then straightened up once they saw his looming figure. They must have been an elf, based on her description.

“W-welcome, my lord.” They stumbled over the words, intimidated and unsure of who he was.

Niva answered for him. “My lord is tired, and would like to retire to his room.”

“O-of course!”

The elf whispered to her as they walked. “Will you be needing a spot? You’re welcome to stay with my family, it’d be tight but we’ll make room.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Garrus said, trying to muster a haughty tone. The way the elf flinched made him think he was successful.

“The floor will be more than comfortable for me,” she said quickly, patting the bedrolls attached to the packs.

The elf nodded, apparently satisfied, and stopped at a door, handing her the key before retreating quickly.

There was only one bed.

It sounded like the start of one of the romance books someone from the crew used to leave lying around the Normandy. They never figured out who it was, and eventually finding the latest left-behind romance book became a game. One where the first person to find it had to read it out loud. A game no one liked to win but everyone else enjoyed.

She locked the door, then drew the single, small curtain across the window looking out into the night. Their room had a fireplace, which Garrus figured was a lucky thing for them based on the humble building. She stirred the coals and added a thick log, warming the room. She set out the bedrolls near the hearth, stacking them, then sat on them, her back against the wall as she removed her boots.

Garrus stood awkwardly next to the bed, metal mask in his hand and the hood of his cloak down. "I -"

"Take the bed. I'll be fine."

He didn't like this. "That should be my line."

"Why?"

"You're..."

She stared at him. "I hope you know better than to say that my being a female has something to do with who should get the bed."

He did, so he changed his angle. "Look, you've taken care of me for however long while I healed, guided us all the way here, and you were on edge practically the entire time. You should at least take the bed for a well-earned rest."

She laid down on the bedrolls, her back to him, face towards the fire.

"...Okay then." He wasn't going to forcibly tuck her into the bed. That would definitely be too far.

He did lay the heavy quilt from the bed over her, keeping his cloak as his own covering. Seemed like a fair trade.

He laid down and stared at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. After a while, he heard her sniffing and coughing. She hadn't done that since that first camp he'd woken up in. Was she sick?

Wait.

Crying.

That was what humans sounded like when they were crying. Grieving.

He hadn't recognized it the first time, then hadn't heard her do it again until now. What was he supposed to do? Should he say something? Might be best to just pretend he was asleep. It was hard to get privacy with someone else in the room. Maybe she preferred to grieve alone.

The sniffing and coughing - the crying - faded away after a few minutes. Her breath slowed and became even. As soon as he knew she had fallen asleep, he allowed himself to as well. The door was locked, the curtain drawn. Maybe not as safe as they could be, but he admitted it was nice to be in an occupied building for the first time since...

He drifted away before he could remember.


	7. The Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorna returns to the Grey Wardens with bad news. They have bad news of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Jorna~

" _Dead_ , Warden Jorna?" Making it the second time he'd asked.

"Yes, Warden-Commander. Both Scrib and Niva. Darkspawn attack. It's in the report."

Jorna was confused, didn’t know whether to assume it was bad paperwork or them thinking she was lying. Which she sort of was. She'd given her written report to the Senior Warden who'd sent them out. They'd made her give more detail about Scrib and Niva's ‘deaths.’ Not so off, but not comfortable. Jorna'd tried to play up her cuts and bruises and broken ribs - actually gotten from a few well-picked fights in tiny pubs that hated elves. But something was wrong, because they kept asking her questions.

Yes, it really _was_ a darkspawn attack. (Lie.)

No, she hadn't run away from the attack. (Truth.)

Yes, Scrib and Niva were dead. (Half-truth, half-lie.)

But after the Senior Warden, she had to talk to the Warden-Constable. Not exactly standard. Not standard in the least bit. She'd _never_ heard of someone coming back from a mission and having to talk to the Warden-Constable, even if a bunch of them died.

She had her story straight, she was sure. She'd even written it down, memorized it, then burned the paper. Rehearsed backwards, forwards, upwards, and downwards. At least it was just her telling it. No one else they could ask. Two could keep a secret if one of them pretended to be dead and never, ever came back to be interrogated.

Three, if she counted the witch-dragon-god.

Scrib wouldn't be telling anyone except whoever waited for their dead souls - Maker, Creators, the void, who-or-what-ever.

She'd given the Warden-Constable the same story, same details, same report. Still not enough, because now she was talking to the new first-in-command for Orlais, Warden-Commander Andriet.

Definitely _not_ standard for a regular return from the field.

The Inquisition had let them stay in Orlais after the shitshow at Adamant some months back. Without Clarel as Warden-Commander, her Warden-Constable should've stepped up into the role. But the Warden-Constable'd died at Adamant, too. A lot of them had died. Andriet'd been the highest ranking Warden left alive, thanks to his being lucky enough to've already been out on a mission.

They'd rebuilt as best they could in the months since Adamant, but 'as best they could' wasn't anywhere near enough. Truth was they were scrambling to rebuild their ranks _and_ their reputation. Fast as thought for a good reputation to sour, but takes years to turn a bad one around. Then, like salt-icing on a spoiled cake, there was the actual, honest-to-Creators fact that even though the Corypheus monster was responsible for destroying them, the Wardens _still_ weren't going after it.

Warden-Commander Andriet shook his head. "Warden Jorna, that is indeed what is in your report, but..." He looked at the Senior Warden and the Warden-Constable. They nodded. Something fishy from all sides, then. Bad paperwork wouldn't make three high-ups _this_ jumpy. "You, Warden Scriven, and Warden Niva have an impressive record as a team. We all simply find it difficult to believe that a darkspawn attack would take any of you down if all three of you were together, even an ambush by," he read off of the paper in front of him, "'six Shriek rogue aberrations.'"

That was more than enough to tell Jorna that this wasn't about sloppy paperwork. "Don't know what else to tell you, Warden-Commander. What happened, happened. I'm not happy about it, I lost two of the best damned Grey Wardens I've ever worked with. If I didn't know we were so short on Wardens I'd have asked for some bereavement by now."

The higher-ups looked at each other again, then Andriet jerked his head. The other two left. Not a good sign.

Andriet let the silence fill the room. Jorna hated silence, but the Warden-Commander hadn't accused her of anything yet. Maybe she still had a chance to keep Niva - and herself - safe.

Andriet tapped his knuckles on top of her report. "Warden Jorna, I'm going to let you in on something that I'd like you to keep between us."

A change in direction, but Jorna knew this kind of talk, too. Still not a paperwork issue, but not 'we know you're lying' just yet. Instead it was starting to sound very hush-hush, which was a bad sign of a different kind.

"Between you, me, and the other high-ups, you mean?"

The Warden-Commander of Orlais nodded. She'd expected him to scowl, but instead he was being very un-Orlesianly. Jorna wasn't sure if that was good or bad or nothing at all. "Just so. Most of the Senior Wardens and the Warden-Constable already know this, but due to your recent experiences, I believe this is information you need to be privy to as well."

Jorna sat back. She still wasn't sure she trusted Andriet, but if she resisted, he might try to pry more into Scrib and Niva.

"Warden Jorna, you know of Corypheus, yes?" At this point, what moron in Thedas _didn't_ know about him? "Well, what do you know of the Architect?"

"The what-now?"

Andriet nodded. "I thought so." He stood and started pacing, typical high-up behavior, just to show off that he was antsy _and_ could stalk around like a caged animal. "Your report contained a much higher number of darkspawn in Ferelden than even we anticipated. A large portion of them were aberrations, larger than any we've seen in the past."

He stared at the papers on his desk. "The number of darkspawn aberrations has risen. In-part due to Corypheus, perhaps even because of the red lyrium, but there is no reason for that many aberrations to be in the areas of Ferelden you - and Wardens Scrib and Niva, Maker keep them - surveyed. We believe there is another highly advanced darkspawn - the Architect - who is responsible for this."

"How d'you know about this Architect, then?"

"The Warden from the Fifth Blight, the one they call the Hero of Ferelden, ran into him about a year after the Battle of Denerim and Warden Loghain's death. Their report was thorough, and disturbing. The Architect experiments on and manipulates darkspawn. The results of those experiments are darkspawn aberrations with incredible, deviant powers and talents - some have even been capable of speech. If the Architect has continued his experiments, he may have created many powerful aberrations over time. The long and short of it is this: if the Architect is another Magister Sidereal, as the Inquisition - and the Wardens - believe Corypheus is, we can assume he has some powerful and devastating plans in store for all of Thedas."

"What does it have to do with me and Scrib and Niva?" It clicked before Andriet could open his mouth to answer her. "You're wondering if the Shrieks that attacked us were _advanced_ ones."

Andriet nodded and sat. "Precisely so. I have wondered if you were hesitant to tell us what happened, to lessen the shock of losing Wardens Scriven and Niva. We wanted to approach this delicately, to be considerate of your emotional state. The attack must have been devastating, especially given how experienced all of you were with darkspawn of many varieties."

He folded his hands on the desk, close to looking like he was praying. To _her_. Very desperate times. "It may be painful, Warden Jorna, but, if there is anything else you can tell us, anything at all, now is the time to speak. You will not be chastised or punished, I assure you. If the darkspawn were highly advanced, or particularly unusual, even if they weren't capable of speech, it could give us more evidence that the Architect is resurfacing."

Jorna thought hard. She'd stayed back from Niva, didn't turn around to look her in the eye after kicking Scrib's corpse into the chasm. She'd left the ruins fast, not running, not _not_ running. Getting in all those fights had stopped her thoughts from getting too waterwheeling, but now...

Now...

The Warden-Commaner had a point.

The Warden-Commander was studying her. "How about I make us some tea?" He stood slowly, taking his time. "I'll go make a pot. Take some time to think about your encounter, any details you may have...accidentally...hidden away. Anything, and I mean _anything_ , Warden Jorna, could help us track down and stop whatever plan the Architect is concocting."

Andriet left the room, and Jorna all but slammed her head on the desk in front of her. Eyes closed. Remembering. Hating remembering. She'd tried everything not to think about it, going over the blurry big picture instead of the step-by-step. The thing Niva'd protected, that she'd killed Scrib for, had looked like a kind of cross between a darkspawn, already bad enough, and a demon, even worse. Scrib had said that Niva's mind'd been controlled by the thing, even though it was almost dead. She hadn't gotten the look on Niva's face out of her head. The one she'd had when she reached for all the arrows and such stuck out of its back and seen how bad it was hurt. Jorna'd been pretty sure Niva'd been herself when she killed Scrib.

What if she hadn't been? What if that thing'd gotten hold of her mind after all?

What if the witch-dragon-god had something to do with it? Jorna'd left her out of the report, too. If Andriet'd told her about the Architect, something he said he'd kept back from almost everyone else, what _else_ was he hiding?

Two scary-strong and twisty darkspawn gods. Why not two witch-dragon-gods?

The waterwheel in Niva's head was spinning almost to breaking by the time Warden-Commander Andriet came back with a pot of tea and other things on a tray. He set the tray down and poured tea. He asked her what she took in hers. Cream? Honey? Both, maybe neither?

"Warden-Commander, I wasn't wholly honest in my report."

An hour passed. Then two. The tea went cold, the cream went warm. A gnat landed on the side of the honey jar and let itself get stuck, happy to eat what would eventually kill it.

Warden-Commander Andriet called his Warden-Constable and the Senior Warden overseeing Jorna back in. Then more Senior Wardens. Someone started writing things down.

She told them the story, real one, over and over again, forwards, backwards, upwards, and downwards.

She tried to get them to see how plain she was trying to spell her doubt. They wouldn't. They were too busy being excited and scared about the aberration that had taken over one of their Wardens' minds and made that Warden kill another Warden. Whispers that it was like Corypheus, like Adamant, like nothing they'd seen before yet definitely had, at least those of them lucky enough to survive.

Killing the demon at Adamant - not Corypheus, no, he wasn't even there - had freed the Wardens. Almost cost them the entire order, _did_ cost them the order's reputation, and most of the Wardens, too. Many died. Many others left from shame or guilt or fear.

Find the aberration? Yes. Find it, and Niva, and capture them. No, Jorna, of course they wouldn't _kill_ Niva. They'd need her alive.

To study her. And the aberration's effect on her.

Jorna tried to take comfort from the part that kept Niva _and_ the thing alive. The witch-dragon-god mightn't come for Niva if the promise she'd made didn't actually break.

That comfort was cold and bitter like the tea in the pot on the desk. She was glad she didn't know where Niva had planned to go before she left.

She was glad the Warden-Commander gave in to her wanting to search for Niva herself.

Search. Not hunt. The first idiot calling it a hunt would get her dagger through their eye. Andriet nodded and waved her out of his office.

Find Niva and the aberration and bring them back alive.

And do it _fast_.

Because Jorna wasn't the only one they were sending out to look for them.


	8. The Day Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gold was going to run out sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Garrus~

Garrus was a good soldier. He was fine taking orders from someone who had the advantage in a field he was unfamiliar with.

He wasn't great with being idle for long periods of time.

Say, over a month.

He was frustrated. Niva still wouldn't allow him to leave their room, even with the cloak and mask. She made him keep the curtain drawn and his disguise on, and would wait on the other side of the door until he locked it before leaving to do...whatever it was she did. Garrus had tried to ask at first, but she wouldn't tell him.

At least the time they spent traveling had allowed him to move around. Their room was starting to feel claustrophobic. Niva wouldn't even allow him to open the window for some air. Didn't matter if the curtain would stay drawn. Didn't matter if it was a moonless night. Didn't matter if it would be for just a minute.

He had created a routine of extremely basic training exercises, doing them over and over again to try to build his strength back and fight off his boredom. Depending on the day, he could do the same routine ten times over and still be bored.

He took apart, cleaned, and reassembled the crossbow every day. At least that took up some time, with having to remove the screws with a coin Niva had given him. He'd even made a few tweaks that would improve its performance. If he was ever allowed to shoot it.

Garrus was a good soldier. But even a good soldier had their limits.

And today, Garrus had reached his.

The sun was going down. Niva would be back just after it set, and they'd have a chat. A _chat_. Not a talk. A 'talk' would be aggressive. He wasn't a fool, he knew who had the advantage when it came to laying low and surviving here. He couldn't afford to piss her off. He didn't _want_ to piss her off, either. He might resent being stuck in this room, but he didn't resent Niva. Even though she kept her cards close to her chest, he liked to think they had formed a bit of a camraderie over the three months they had known each other.

No, it wouldn't be a talk. Just a chat. A friendly chat.

Half an hour later, there was a knock on the door in a particular pattern. Niva changed the pattern she would knock in once a week, another sign of her precautions. She had wanted to add a password to the procedure, but had relented at Garrus' less-than-amused expression.

Garrus unlocked the door and held it open, keeping unseen on the other side. He was surprised when she backed into the room rear first, dragging a large chest behind her. He closed and locked the door as she stretched her back and groaned.

"Do some light shopping today?" He gestured to the chest.

She untied the headscarf that held her hair back and used it to pat at her brow. "Kind of."

"Listen, we need to...chat."

She started patting at her neck and sat on top of the chest. "Alright, what's on your mind?"

He sat on the bed, facing her. "That's just it. I'm _losing_ my mind, being cooped up in here."

She nodded, looking over to where the window was hidden behind the curtain. "I know. You've been doing your workouts more often."

"I...How did you know?"

She twisted her headscarf in her hands. "I've been working downstairs. I can hear when you do whatever the jumping things are." She chuckled absently. "I just told the others that you were keeping your figure. They chalked it up to weird noble stuff."

"Why have you been working downstairs?"

"Money's not limitless, Garrus." There was a little teasing in her tone, but her exhaustion was apparent. "They were fine with me working downstairs to make our coin stretch, but we're out of coin. One person working for room and board is fine, but it won’t cover two."

"Alright, so what's the plan?"

Niva gestured to the chest. "You're getting a job."

His hands itched, wanting to see what was in there. "That's the most exciting news I've heard in three months."

The corner of her mouth twisted down briefly. He'd miscalculated the joke, and made her upset. She pretended she hadn't heard him and quickly opened the chest, pulling out a crossbow and handing it to him. "Hopefully this will relieve the boredom. I've watched you alter your crossbow a few times. Think you could do something similar to these?"

He took it, noting two other crossbows as well as spare pieces of wood and metal, and tools. A simple crossbow, like she'd first given him. "Are we going to sell these?"

"Better. We'll be doing custom orders. I finally convinced a regular to let me bring some supplies to you. If you impress him, we'll be in business."

"Custom orders. Interesting." Garrus set the crossbow on his lap and looked at Niva, nodding. "Thank you."

"Don't -"

"Thank you yet, I know. But I'm going to anyway. This _will_ help the boredom. Don't think you've distracted me completely. I’m not giving up on getting out of this room, though." He grinned. It had taken her a few times to recognize what a Turian's grin looked like. "But I'm glad to finally contribute to our budget. So what's the order? More distance? Accuracy?"

”Everything. ‘Make it amazingly enviable,’ he said. Any chance you could do decorations on top of improvements?”

”It's not my strong suit... If I’ve got spare metal I’ll see what I can come up with. Testing the weapons is going to be a problem if I can't actually shoot them.”

She knocked on the chest's lid, showing it was solid wood. "Can you make do with this?"

"Won't be a good enough measure of accuracy or distance. All it'll be good for is making sure the thing actually fires."

She twisted her headscarf again, trying to figure out how to say what Garrus already knew - this was the best she could do without him going outside.

He sighed. "I'll make it work. For now. But I need to get out of this room, Niva. Sooner, not later. What about a walk around town? Tonight?"

She checked the position of the moons in the sky. They were descending, Garrus already knew, and would be gone in an hour or so. She still looked doubtful.

"Come on, Niva. I won't even suggest getting a drink somewhere. Just a walk. We can stick to backstreets and shadows if that'll mean I get out of here."

Grudgingly, she agreed.

The night walk felt like freedom. Garrus got the same sense of relief that he had whenever he touched down planet-side after spending months on a ship, comforted by the feeling of solid ground and non-artificial gravity. In this case, he was just happy to see the sky.

They walked in silence, giving him time to take in the sights of the backstreets at night. And the smells. Given this particular city's use of chamberpots and lack of sewers, it wasn't a _pleasant_ smell, but it was different. Right now, different would do.

He still followed the same rules Niva had laid out the night they traveled to the inn: follow her, don't let anyone touch him, don't speak, don't show his hands, and keep his head overly high. They stayed on backstreets and in shadows, and returned to the inn after less than an hour.

Still, the brief walk was close to freedom. And Garrus would take 'close' over nothing at all.

* * *

Over the next week, Garrus worked on the three crossbows by day. He specialized one for distance, adding more metal strips and tighter cabling to propel the bolt. On another he added extra stabilizers and a better sight to improve the accuracy. He poured everything into the third one, making the parts easier to break down for cleaning and maintenance, adding everything he'd done to the first two crossbows, and more. He stayed up all night building a box and twisting thin metal rods into springs to create a space for spare ammunition. The design wasn't perfect - it didn't load automatically, the wielder had to use a lever. At least that made six bolts right in the crossbow instead of in a quiver.

They walked two other nights besides the first, Niva just as wary and cautious each time.

The third night they were to walk, Niva was late coming up to their room. The staff had already seen him twice on the other night walks, so he decided it should be safe to meet her downstairs and begin their walk early. He locked the door behind him, proud of the work he'd done on the crossbows. He just might be able to create a decoration based on his own face markings, and he had ideas to make an automatic ammunition loader.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs when he heard Niva speaking with the same elf that had let them in the first night, Ilvasser. He could see Niva wiping down tables as Ilvasser mopped.

"Can't believe how many we had in here tonight, eh, Eva?" Niva had also insisted on an alias for herself. "Shame Bernar won't let all that extra business cover room and board for both you and your lord."

Garrus didn't miss Ilvasser's sharpened tone on mentioning both the innkeeper and the 'lord.'

"As long as Ser Lanissius is pleased with the work my lord has done, that shouldn't be a problem much longer."

"You're sure that Vakarian knows his stuff?"

" _Monsieur_ Vakarian does good work." Niva took a stack of wooden bowls and plates to the bar.

Ilvasser leaned on the handle of his mop. "Why do you insist on using his title when you're among friends?"

"I respect him," she said over her shoulder.

Ilvasser clicked his tongue. " _Why_? He’s made you start working for room and board for the _both_ of you, without lifting a finger of his own. Why do you work so hard for him?"

"That's what a servant like me does." She shrugged and began sorting the stack of plates and bowls.

"A 'servant like you?'" Ilvasser shifted on his feet. "You mean, a servant of no particular station who occupies the same room as their master, for a month? Even if you were his personal valet, that behavior is more than strange."

Garrus couldn't see the elf's face, but his tone was taking a turn he didn't like. From the way Niva's shoulders rose, she didn't like the direction the conversation was going either.

"Let's just finish cleaning up," she snapped, slamming down the sorted stack of wooden plates on the bar with unnecessary force.

Ilvasser dropped the mop and went to Niva, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She froze.

That sudden stillness was all Garrus needed to see to know Ilvasser was displaying unusual behavior. His hand tightened on his crossbow, glad he'd decided to bring it with him.

"Something doesn't feel right about Vakarian. Something's _off_ about him. I know you like keeping your secrets, Eva, that you don't really share things about yourself. But I've been worried for you. For your safety."

"My safety?"

"Yes. You spend so much time with him...much more time than any servant and lord I've ever seen. He... _requires_ it, doesn't he? Your...presence?"

She slapped his hand away. "Are you sure you want to continue with that implication, Ilvasser?"

He gripped her shoulders and turned her, forcing her to look at him.

Garrus ducked behind the thin wooden panel that separated the stairs from the main area of the inn's tavern, keeping out of Niva's sight now that she was faced towards him. If she saw him and reacted, Ilvasser could misinterpret it. He was already acting out of character, if Garrus was reading Niva's body language and tone right. With the way Ilvasser was behaving, Spirits knew what he would do in response.

He quietly loaded a bolt into the crossbow, finger on the trigger.

"Come on, Eva, you can tell me." Ilvasser was pleading.

"I have nothing to say." Niva's voice sounded calm and deadly.

" _Eva_." He sighed in frustration. "Just, just _tell me_. You keep saying 'a servant like you' works hard for your lord, because that's just 'what you do.' Is part of that work, part of being a 'servant like you,' being someone who says they are sleeping on the floor, but is nightly forced into their lord's bed?"

"Where the _hell_ did you get that idea?! _No_ , Ilvasser." Niva answered before Garrus' anger made him drop his cover and fire a bolt into the back of the elf's head. A pause. "No! The only time he's ever even made contact with me was to push my hand away from him. Said I was fussing too much over straightening his cloak clasp."

"Eva..." Ilvasser's voice dripped with doubt and pity.

" _Ilvasser_." Niva's voice was ice. "He's a private person. I am, too. _That's_ why we can occupy the same room comfortably. _That's_ why I work so hard for him. I respect him, _and he respects me_." He heard the sound of the stack of wooden plates getting slammed down on the bar again, then heard her footsteps on the floorboards. "Goodnight."

The sound of fast footsteps following hers finally made Garrus break cover and pivot around the panel, crossbow out.

They froze, surprised. Ilvasser's hand hovered just an inch above Niva's shoulder. Her face was ureadable, so Garrus concentrated on the enemy behind her. Ilvasser looked confused, then saw the crossbow pointed at him.

"M-monsieur Vakarian, h-how long have you been here?!" Ilvasser stammered, drawing his hand back in a blur of motion.

Garrus looked at Niva, knowing that the blank expression of the mask combined with ignoring the question would unnerve the elf. He kept the crossbow trained on him, though. "Are you alright?"

She nodded.

"Is he harassing you?" He slowly turned his face towards Ilvasser, who shrank back.

Niva shook her head. "No, my lord."

He tightened his finger on the trigger just a fraction, enough to make the mechanism creak. "Are you _sure_?”

Agonizing silence.

The elf's eyes darted from Garrus to Niva over and over again, growing increasingly more panicked.

”Yes, I'm sure.”

Garrus waited a beat, then lowered the crossbow. "Very well. Let's go."

Ilvasser shuddered with relief.

"Yes, Monsieur Vakarian." Niva bowed slightly and walked past him without glancing back at Ilvasser. The elf flinched and almost doubled over in fear without Niva to be a buffer - or body shield - between him and Garrus.

Garrus paused another moment, then pulled the crossbow back into his cloak and turned to follow Niva. He heard Ilvasser gasp, breathing quickly, then whimpering.

He was glad his mask hid his grim, satisfied smile.

Niva punched his arm as soon as he exited the backdoor of the inn, then cursed and held her hand. "Forgot you were all bone," she hissed. "That was _stupid_ , Garrus!"

"There's plenty of muscle under this cloak. But punching a Turian without some kind of gloves on? Agreed, not a smart move."

" _No!_ " She started stalking down the street, whispering over her shoulder to him. "I meant waltzing downstairs and pointing your crossbow at Ilvasser! What were you thinking?!"

"He was acting strangely. I could tell from your voice and your body language. He was going to grab you if I hadn't broken cover, by the way. Almost had his hand on you. My military training took over."

" _Your_ military training." Anger made her shoulders tense. "You're not the only soldier here, _Garrus_."

"True enough. But soldiers, _squadmates_ , watch each other's backs. That's all I was doing."

She grumbled then went quiet, walking faster.

The silence of tonight's walk wouldn't be a comfortable one.

But he didn't regret scaring off Ilvasser.

He'd _never_ regret watching a squadmate's back.

That's all it had been.

Just one soldier looking out for another.

Routine procedure.

Ignore the blaze of anger that the elf's accusation lit inside of him.

* * *

Ser Lanissius was more than impressed with the crossbows, and even commented on the 'lovely-if-utilitarian' decoration.

He immediately commissioned fourteen more.

They were in business.

Thank the Spirits.


	9. The Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Custom crossbow orders start to go through the roof, and so do the profits. Time to get a new roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Garrus~

One ostentatious noble and seventeen crossbowss later, they were in business. Ser Lanissius had bragged about his 'bespoke trio' of crossbows and handed out the 'extras he didn't care for' like courtly favors to impress other, more important nobles. The desperate man's ploy worked in both their favors - he rose in social esteem, and the demand for Garrus' custom crossbows spread like wildfire. Make that _Monsieur Vakarian_ 's 'bespoke' crossbows.

Their gold grew, and more orders came, more requests for even more complex crossbows, ones that would shoot faster, fly farther, easily reset, and, oh, how much ammunition could fit in that interesting little box that pre-loaded the next bolt? Would Monsieur Vakarian fit a few more in there for some extra gold?

Business was good.

Niva went and found their first workshop within a few weeks of both the surge in orders and the confrontation with Ilvasser. Garrus' only requirement was that they be able to move into whatever place they ended up renting. He was eager to be out of the inn as soon as possible. He thought Niva may have been as well.

They'd still had to share a room in that first workshop, but it did have two cot-sized beds. She had jokingly put out the bedrolls the first night. He'd ranted about how ridiculous it was for her to sleep on the floor when there was a perfectly good, unoccupied bed _right there_. He caught on when she burst out laughing at the wild gestures he'd been making.

The small entryway to the workshop had served as their first storefront, keeping a wooden wall and door between Garrus and the potential customers. After some arguing and rearranging and promising not to 'unnecessarily' come into view, she had agreed to keep the workshop door open. Just in case.

Unfortunately, the haughtiest customers would see the open door and try to pass Niva by, to 'speak directly to the artisan.' Whenever this happened, she would pull an enormous crossbow from underneath the table that served as the counter.

"What do you think of _this_ model?" She would ask casually. "I can give you a personal demonstration, if you'd like."

He'd grinned to himself each time he heard her say that.

One day, he kept a loaded crossbow with him. His patience paid off when a particularly nasty customer came into the shop. The customer tried to push past Niva. Garrus heard Niva's lightly veiled threat, and punctuated it by firing the readied bolt at the wall visible from the open door.

That customer, and the others that followed, quickly took a liking to dealing with Niva, no longer asking to see 'the artisan.'

* * *

Their second workshop had a storefront and _two_ bedrooms, as well as a dedicated kitchen and an outhouse. A strange feeling, to be grateful for an outhouse.

Garrus had thought he would have been glad that Niva had finally gotten her own room. _Had_ been glad. She deserved some privacy. Privacy was a good thing. This would be a good thing. For both of them.

But the first night at the new workshop, Garrus couldn't sleep. Months spent sharing a room with someone else, and instead of enjoying the quiet of being alone, it kept him up. Maybe that was his training kicking in, saying that there was safety in numbers even while sleeping. Or maybe it was just the life of a soldier - once you got used to bunking with your squadmates, it was hard to break the habit.

His head was filled with these thoughts when he heard her door open, and didn't hear it close.

He'd made sure the place was as secure as wooden-walled quarters with simple metal locks could be. It was probably nothing.

He tried to remind himself that, like she had said, he wasn't the only soldier between them. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing at all. It was nothing.

But he should check, shouldn't he? Watch his squadmate's back. Just in case.

He stepped across the hall and looked through the slim opening of her door to the parts of the room he could see. Checking for suspiciously enemy-shaped shadows lurking in the corners. None. A good sign. Then he saw Niva, wide awake, sitting on her bed.

Staring him dead in the eye.

He didn't want her to get the wrong idea, to think that he was watching her sleep, that she wouldn't have the privacy she had every right to, the privacy that he had _sincerely_ wanted for her.

She crossed the room and opened the door before he could retreat.

"Can't sleep, huh?" She picked at a loose thread on her nightshirt, the one she'd worn every night since they met. Nothing upset or accusatory in her posture or tone of voice. A good sign. Maybe.

"I heard your door open, but didn't hear it close. I wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn't see any assassins in your room. From what I could see. Of your room. From the door. The hallway, really." Great job, Vakarian, this is definitely what normal conversations sound like. "What's been keeping you up?"

"Been thinking about the shop. I think we're going to need more storage. And...maybe an indoor range?"

He thought about all the crossbows he'd never been able to truly, significantly test. "Not a bad idea, but we don't exactly have the space for it."

She glanced around her room. "This room's narrow and long. It'd work for a range."

"But then you wouldn't have a room," he pointed out. He doubted that she didn't already see that. "Where would you sleep?"

"I've still got the bedrolls. The workshop's got some good floor space."

"Not the bedrolls again. Come on, you can't give up your room. Why would you give up your own room, your own _privacy_ , for storage and an indoor crossbow range?"

"I really don't mind. Your work's good, Garrus, and an indoor range could help you hone your skill even more. " She picked at the loose thread again. "We've only just moved in here, but eventually we could look for a place with enough rooms and a spot for an actual range. For now, we should make do with the space we've got, even if it means giving up a room. If it would help."

The final decision seemed like it would be up to him. Her logic made sense, as far as Garrus could see, but he wasn't going to stand for the bedrolls. Not when there was, yet again, a perfectly good, unoccupied bed available.

He knew what his decision was: they would move the bed. There was, after all, at least one room he could think of with enough space to place it in.

"Fine, but you're not going back to sleeping on the floor. We...could move your bed into the other room." He motioned to the open door behind him. "If you don't mind sharing again."

He'd made a call, but she needed to be on board. They were a squad, a team. If she was against the idea, they'd abandon it.

She looked back into her room, nodding slowly. "Maybe. No sense making the decision tonight. We can see if it's still a good idea in the morning."

They moved her bed the next day, and both slept soundly the following night.

* * *

Another two months, and they were moving again, into the third workshop. It was a farmhouse that was now too close to the edge of the growing city to function as it was originally intended. The original property had been carved up into parcels, but the farmhouse itself sat on a bit of land, including a wooded section that they would use for an outdoor range. The woods were thick enough that it would deter trespassers, but still suitable for testing the power and accuracy of the increasingly complex crossbows he made.

They hired laborers to move their things, both of them directing new furniture and worn chests to this room or that. Thanks to a discreet tailor who was very good with vague descriptions and odd measurements, Garrus had gotten actual clothing, with extra length in the sleeves and leathers, and clever padding to give him a more human-like appearance. Gloves, unknowingly designed for Turian digits, were provided by a kind patron who had heard about the 'unfortunate childhood accident' that had 'taken two fingers of each hand' from Monsieur Vakarian.

With a head covering and mask, he was free from the cloak, and from Niva's 'stay out of sight' precaution. Now, he only had to avoid being around large crowds, or spending long periods of time with strangers. Not enough freedom to allow them to go into a pub for a drink, but it was still an improvement. The new clothes replaced his well-worn underlayer and the cloak she had made for him. Although he kept them both, stowing them away in a chest. Just in case.

Garrus was directing some laborers carrying equipment for the workshop when he overheard another one ask Niva which bed should go in which room. He paused, listening.

She was the one who decided to sleep on the bedrolls in the inn. She was the one who decided to give up her room in the second workshop for storage and an indoor range. She was the one who had purchased two beds for their most recent move.

She should be the one to make this decision, too. Bunk together, as they had been? Or, claim a room for herself?

He'd be fine with whatever her decision was. It was up to her, what she wanted.

He waited and listened.

"What'll it be, miss?" The laborer asked patiently, sweating while avoiding looking at Garrus. He would much rather deal with 'Eva' than with 'Monsieur Vakarian.'

She finally waved her hand and told him to put both beds in the same room.

"For now," she added, turning her attention to yet another laborer, one who was working on extending the farm's well pump inside the farmhouse so they could finally have a _sink_.

Made sense to Garrus.

They'd probably need the other rooms for storage anyway.

* * *

They didn't move the beds from the first room they were set in. The other rooms became specialty workspaces or storage.

Garrus wasn't sure if agreeing silently to the same sleeping arrangement was a positive sign of their camraderie, or a neutral one . Surely it couldn't be a negative sign, otherwise Niva would want hers or Garrus' bed moved to another room. Garrus was fine with the shared-room arrangement, and Niva didn't say anything to indicate that she had a problem with it.

Then again, she didn't say much about herself, or what she wanted, in the first place.

Garrus wanted to know more about who he was working with, living with, bunking with, carving out a life on this planet with. He started asking Niva more of the questions she had never answered. He had tried asking her those questions while they were traveling, during meals at the inn, in the other workshops. This was the person he was going to spend the foreseeable future with, after all. His business partner. His squadmate.

For the amount of time they had spent together so far, he should have known more about her. Instead, there were a lot of gaps in his knowledge when it came to Niva, and he wanted to fix that.

There was one venue he hadn't tried talking with her in before: in the darkness of their shared bedroom.

Bunk, shared _bunk_ , since they were squadmates.

One night, he softly called her name from his bed, seeing if she was awake.

She was.

"Do you miss your life before this?" He asked, half-rising onto his elbows. A simple enough question, 'yes' or 'no' would do, but with plenty of room to add details, if she was game.

"Which one..." She hadn't meant for him to, but the room, while adequate, was small enough for him to hear her sigh that under her breath. Hard to grumble quietly to yourself when your squadmate was only a few feet away.

He turned onto his side to face her, light from the first risen moon turning the room bluish-silver. "Well, you've never mentioned anything from _before_ the Grey Wardens."

She stared up at the ceiling. Their beds were pushed flush against opposite walls, and they both slept with their feet pointed towards the door.

"Or mentioned how you knew my name," he continued. "Or how you knew about the Citadel, or the Spectres, or Turians." Garrus realized this might not have be the best conversation to have at the moment, but his curiosity won out over his caution.

More than a couple of feet of empty space between their beds, yet talking like this felt...closer. Closer than it had felt any other time they'd talked.

Which made the silence that much more frustrating.

"Look, we share a business, a house, a bunk. Have for months. But I barely know anything about you." He was pushing at the edges of her silence. Not because he wanted to pry, but because he didn't want to accept not knowing her as the standard of their interactions. "You haven't even told me where you're from. I can take a wild guess that you're about as native to this world as I am."

"True," she said, surprising him with an actual reply. "I'm not from here." A long pause, Garrus waiting patiently. "I'm still from Earth, though."

"Is _this_ Earth? A version of it?" That was their current theory, parallel universes that had briefly overlapped to bring him here. If she was as much a stranger here as he was, then that could have been what brought her here, too.

She turned onto her side, mirroring his pose. "I assumed it was, but maybe it's not? I mean, it's got two moons, and Earth - _my_ Earth - only has one."

"So does the one I'm familiar with. But you're _sure_ you're from a version of Earth that's _not_ the one _I_ know?" A question he had tried before and gotten only a vague answer to.

"No, no way. We've only _just_ started trying to figure out how to send people to Mars, and _theorizing_ about what kind of aliens _might_ be out there."

"Wait a minute. So, you don't have contact with _any_ non-humans? Not Turians, or Asari, or Quarians?"

"None. Or, elves, dwarves, or Qunari. Or darkspawn." She laid back, looking thoughtfully at the moon outside of the window. "Most likely not demons either, but that's more of a religious thing."

"So it's _just_ humans?"

"Yep."

"Then how did you know about _me_?"

She was silent, her eyes glued to the moon, her expression shifting to too neutral.

"Niva, I don't get why you don't trust me with this information." He didn't think she was doing it consciously, but she balled up her hands. Not a good sign. It was time to step back. "Maybe that's enough talking for the night..."

"Garrus." She looked at him.

Maybe the bluish-silver light shining through a window into their safe, shared bedroom was allowing her to let her guard down.

Or, maybe he was reading too much into her expression in a poorly-lit bunk.

He waited.

"I need to figure out how to say it right."

"Alright then." He laid back down on the bed, pulling the blankets up. "Hey, no matter what, I've got your back, just like you've got mine. You know that, right?"

"Yes. I do."

He took her word and turned on his side, facing the wall his bed was pushed up against. He heard her sheets rustle a little as she settled in.

It was more than she'd ever even _hinted_ at before, and no matter how vague that hint was, it was still progress.

* * *

Business was good. Orders were coming in from other cities, even some from other countries. The queen of the neighboring country, Ferelden, put in an order for a crossbow for her son.

Life was good. The workshop was running smoothly, even if it was just the two of them. The wooded range let him test his crossbows and continue to improve their accuracy and power. He waited patiently for her to open up to him, and in the meantime they both slept well in their shared room.

Everything was good.

At least, for the moment.

But Garrus couldn't help feeling restless.

He tried to enjoy their life, as best as he could. When the restlessness got to be too loud to ignore, he would tweak and perfect two particular weapons - the wholly original crossbow he'd made for himself, and an altered recurve shortbow that was going to be a surprise for Niva. He increased their power, improved their accuracy, strengthened their construction, and made more and more rounds for both weapons.

Just in case.


	10. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A custom order comes from an organization Niva is very familiar with - and wary of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Garrus~

Niva suddenly looked pale. She had opened the letter hand-delivered by some hired runner and started reading it quickly, only for the color to drain out of her face before she reached the end of it. Garrus watched her eyes dart back to the top of the page and roam down it slowly. Once. Twice.

The runner shifted on their feet behind her. She had turned and gotten to the doorway of the workshop before the writing caught and kept her attention.

"Miss?" The runner called. "Shall I tell him you'll do it?"

Niva shut her eyes at 'him.' Not out of fear, Garrus thought. Something else. Worry, maybe?

"Miss?" The runner said again.

Garrus pulled on his gloves, mask, and head covering. He guided Niva through the doorway of the workshop so he could get by, and dug several gold coins out of his pocket.

"How about giving us a night to think it over?" The coins clinked in his hand.

Only the runner's eyes were visible, the rest of their body wrapped in various fabrics. Those eyes stared at his three-fingered hand, not as surprised as Garrus thought they might be.

The runner shook their head. "I've got other messages to run. I'm heading to Val Fermin next." They thought for a moment. "I can come back by here on my way back to Skyhold, be about a week?"

"Thank you." He pocketed the coins, leaving one on the counter. "A donation."

The runner picked it up. "Thank you, Monsieur. I'll be back in a week."

Garrus locked the door behind the runner and drew the shop's curtains. Niva hadn't come back out into the storefront. Unusual behavior, all because of whatever was in that message.

She had her head in her hands, eyes on the letter.

"Is it another request for a non-lethal crossbow?" One of their first orders after Ser Lanissius was for a crossbow that a bratty noble could use to shoot his friends when they upset him.

"No." Not even a half-amused note in her tone.

"What's in the letter?"

She sighed and handed him the letter. It hadn't taken Garrus long to learn the main reading system they used in this city, considering that it was simpler than the others he was used to. Although, he sometimes missed listening to Niva read things aloud to him.

" _Monsieur Vakarian, I've heard some interesting things about the crossbows you make._ _I'm not looking to place an order for an entire crossbow, though. I'm interested in seeing what you might make for my current one. She's unique, a beauty I'm sure you'd be more than eager to study. Come to Skyhold and show me your skills. Impress our people, and you'll have a place with the Inquisition. We could use some more unique crossbows, Bianca's looking forward to some company. V._ "

Garrus looked up at her. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary. We've gotten offers to join up with groups before. What is it about this one? Skyhold? Inquisition? Bianca? 'V?'""

"The Inquisition."

"Which is..."

"A decision. One we shouldn't make lightly."

"Can I get a little more than vague, slightly menacing riddles?"

"Is the runner still here?"

"Sent them away, but they'll be back next week for the answer. I've closed up the shop, too." He sat near her on the workbench. "Ready when you are."

"I should make us tea."

" _Niva_."

"I...fine. They're working on fighting Corypheus, a powerful darkspawn like the Architect."

"There's two of them? Great."

"And Corypheus isn't really the hands-off kind of guy the Architect is. There's...other things at play, other organizations, other powers, but that's the basic goal - kill Corypheus."

"And that's...a _good_ thing, right? Something we might want to be a part of?"

"Joining them could mean...it could, _maybe_ , mean safety. For both of us. They're used to...unique people. And maybe the Grey Wardens couldn't get to me."

" _You're_ a Warden. Why are they after you?" He shook his head at her skeptical look. "Seems like information that would be important for me to know."

"I don't _know_ that they're after me..." She rolled a piece of wire between her fingers. "I wasn't alone when I found you, Garrus. There were two others with me. Scrib wanted to kill you immediately. I wouldn't let him. Jorna was trying to keep the peace between us."

"Disagreement between squadmates isn't unusual."

She set the wire down. "I killed Scrib. Jorna got rid of his body and left."

He waited for her to continue, but she stayed quiet and started rolling the wire back and forth across the table. He'd have to ask more about that story later. Best to focus on the more immediate concern, then.

"So the question seems to be: would joining this Inquisition make it harder for the Grey Wardens to get to us, or easier?"

"I don't know. There's too many possibilities."

"Would we be safer than we are now?"

She rubbed her eyes. "No idea. The more well-known you get, the more likely it is for us to be discovered."

"You're serious?" Taking on more orders, putting in more effort, coming up with newer and bigger ideas...this entire time, he'd been putting them in more danger. And she had been encouraging him. "Why did we even start this business if it was putting us in danger, Niva?!"

"We couldn't just live in that inn, Garrus." She sounded tired. She _looked_ tired. "There aren't a lot of options for you as a Turian in this world. I tried to find one that would keep you safe _and_ make you happy."

Garrus wanted to argue with her and thank her in the same breath. Nice that she wanted to try to make him happy, but if the price of his happiness was their safety, it wasn't worth it.

The ceiling came crashing down on their heads before he could open his mouth.

* * *

Hard to see.

Hard to breathe.

Something over his face and something else crushing his chest.

" _Braska_!" Garrus heard someone say, sharp and angry, then whatever was crushing his chest eased a little.

"Got the masked one! Alive!" Another unknown voice.

"And the lady, too!" And another.

Three unknowns.

"Well, we can be glad for that, at least." The first one, the one who had said the sharp word that Garrus couldn't understand. "Of course, we wouldn't have had to find them in the rubble if you had both kept to the original plan. You said that you were experienced with 'targeted extractions,' did you not?"

"Yeah, so?" Second unknown.

"I am simply trying to understand how 'targeted extraction' meant 'use explosives.' Hmm?"

"Same lingo as in the mines." Third unknown. "Boss didn't know you meant _people_."

The first unknown sounded frustrated. "I think I will need to have a word with your boss. Not about you, my bearded friends, you have done your jobs as best as you knew how."

"I don't like the way you're talking to us." The voices were becoming faint and fuzzy. It was hard for Garrus to stay alert.

"You will both be paid as agreed, and I will write letters of recommendation that glow brighter than any gem you've ever imagined. Just help me _safely_ extract these people from these ruins, _without explosives_ , and we can part ways amicably."

Garrus tried to raise his head, to see the three people who had destroyed their business and home, to see if Niva was alright. He heard a surprised grunt just before a fist slammed into the side of his head and knocked him unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Garrus has ended up unconscious a LOT so far...poor guy...
> 
> ALSO, I just got to the story in _Tevinter Nights_ where there's a protagonist named Neve!! _This_ Neve is _not_ the same as _that_ Neve. BUT, to try to separate the characters a little, I'm renaming my OC slightly - to Niva. If you've read up to this point before the name change, sorry for the confusion!! A comment similar to this will go at the top of the next chapter, just in case!


End file.
